The Girl Who Played Her Ace
by TruthIsOutThere
Summary: When Blomkvist and Salander return to Hedestad, following the death of Henrik Vanger, they find themselves caught up in a mystery with certain... sentimental value. Rated M for later chapters. Unavoidable HIATUS as of August 2012. So sorry. Thank you for patience. The story will be finished!
1. Chapter 1

**This is my very first attempt at Millennium FanFiction. So, if it's horrid… blame it on my lack-of-experience? I have a vague idea of where the story is going, and I have a few more chapters written up. Hope you enjoy them. Thanks!**

**-TruthIsOutThere**

The phone call came in at five in the morning, shattering the stark silence in the Bellmansgatan apartment. The apartment— which belonged to Mikael Blomkvist— was so out of shape and messy that Blomkvist had to stoop down on his hands and knees just to find his mobile, lodged somewhere underneath the bed.

"Hello?" he asked, groggily, holding the phone to his ear with one hand, rubbing his tired eyes with the other. It was dark inside his apartment. It seemed, in the wake of the most recent _Millennium _fiasco, Blomkvist had neglected to pay his electric bill, and was subsequently left without power until the following Monday.

"Mikael Blomkvist?"

"Yes," Blomkvist breathed, feeling unusually tired. Out of habit, he glanced at the shelf where his digital clock usually sat, only to curse himself for forgetting the damn bill. If there wasn't so much on his mind…

"Mikael, it's Dirch Frode."

Blomkvist froze, feeling suddenly awake.

"Frode?" he asked, trying to mask what little hostility his tired voice could muster up. The last time he'd spoken to this man— almost four years before— was the day Frode revealed that he did not, in fact, possess the information he had hired Blomkvist under the pretense of revealing. He'd left Mikael in an impossible position; encouraging him to sacrifice his journalistic integrity for the sake of a poor, victimized woman who'd been forced to flee Sweden fifty years earlier. And Blomkvist had done it. He had bitten the bullet, and walked away from a year-long project, empty-handed. _Good riddance, _he thought. The fact that Dirch Frode had the audacity to call him— even after all this time— was shocking, but not altogether inconceivable. After all, this man— along with his client, famous CEO Henrik Vanger— was not known for being particularly conscious of sensibility, as displayed by his last-minute breach-of-agreement, several years before.

"Listen, I'm terribly sorry to have to call so early, but I'm afraid I have some rather disturbing news."

"I'm listening," Blomkvist sighed, feeling tired all over again.

"I'm sad to say that Henrik passed away last night." Frode sounded like he couldn't believe what he was saying.

Blomkvist struggled to find the right words.

"I'm sorry," he said, finally. "What a shame."

"Yes," Frode said. "Listen… I know that things didn't necessarily end on a good note between the two of you. And you have every right to be upset after what happened during your stay in Hedestad."

Blomkvist sighed. "Yes…"

Frode paused for a moment. "Well, I'm calling because, as his lawyer, I've been placed in charge of Henrik's estate."

Blomkvist straightened up, slightly. "Yes?"

"Well, it seems Herr Vanger made a couple of… _changes _to his will, without consulting me beforehand. They're all here, and they're definitely in his handwriting…" Frode sounded conflicted as he continued on. "I'm calling because two of the changes Henrik made include… _you." _Frode sounded absolutely abashed. "You and that research assistant of yours. What was her name, again?"

"Lisbeth Salander?" Blomkvist asked, incredulously.

"Froken Salander. Yes…" Frode said. "It seems, in his final months, Henrik realized the true error in his ways regarding the two of you. He felt indebted, you see. He expressed his guilt to me on a number of occasions…" Frode sounded sad. "Of course, I never expected that guilt to manifest itself in this _way."_

"What is _this way _exactly?" Blomkvist asked.

With a sigh, Frode said, "I'd love to tell you, but I'm afraid it's not really something that should be discussed over the phone."

Blomkvist frowned. "Do you have reason to be suspicious?" He glanced over at his bedside table, where his old, secondary mobile sat dead and uncharged.

"No more reason than usual," Dirch said, finally.

"Then why be so secretive?" Blomkvist asked, confused.

Dirch sighed heavily. "Because," he began. "This… _change of heart _Henrik had involves a lot of money—"

"— I don't want a lot of money," Blomkvist began. "I have a job. I do fine on my own."

"I figured you'd say that," Frode said. "But unfortunately, this isn't something you can simply turn down." He paused. "Harriet still sits on your board at _Millennium, _does she not?"

Blomkvist frowned. This was beginning to smell of blackmail.

"Yes…" he began, slowly. "I don't see how that's relevant, though."

"It's not really," Frode said. "Only that I'm sure it's considered bad business to deny one's colleague a chance to see through her closest relative's final wishes."

Blomkvist snorted, confused. "Wait a minute. Is Harriet involved in this somehow?"

Frode sighed. "Of course she is, Mikael. Harriet is the new CEO of the Vanger Company. She has her hands in everything. And if there's one thing she's adamant about; it's honoring her uncle's wishes. Do you understand?

"Yes I—" Blomkvist stuttered. "I understand." He couldn't believe it. After years of silence, this man was finally reaching out, only to blackmail him? Unbelievable.

"It's important that we handle this in a timely manner," Frode explained. "There are a number of matters regarding Henrik's estate that must be handled, but unfortunately, Herr Vanger thought it important that you and Froken Salander were seen to first. You'll have to make the trek up to Hedeby Island at once. Henrik's funeral will be three days from now. Do you think you'll make it by then?"

Blomkvist rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on.

"Yes, yes, I'll be there," he breathed, getting up and pacing the length of his uncharacteristically cluttered bedroom.

"And Froken Salander?" Frode asked, expectantly.

Mikael stopped pacing and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm afraid you'll have to handle that yourself," he said. "I haven't spoken to Lisbeth in months."

Frode became suddenly serious. "Right, of course," he said. "I'll see to the matter myself then."

He hung up the phone.

Lisbeth Salander hovered over her Macbook screen, idly. She reached out and grabbed a slice of Billy's Pan Pizza, bringing it to her lips, and bordely chewing on it as she scrutinized her computer screen. Isak Karlsson. Boring man. Boring job. Boring run-of-the-mill pornography addiction. Boring family. Boring kids. Boring wife. Mildly interesting financial embezzlement scandal in the nineteen-eighties.

But overall, a boring hard drive, and another boring job from Armonsky.

Salander stood up, walked over to her large picture window, and brooded, overlooking Fiskargatan. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, trying to soothe her nerves. Ever since her legal blunder the year before, which had resulted in the clearing of her name, as well as her declaration of legal competence, she'd been branded something of a minor celebrity in Stockholm. Everyone knew her story, or at least what had been published in the newspapers, which really was not everything. Salander smiled to herself. She still had a few secrets up her sleeve. She cast a glance over her shoulder at her dim Macbook screen.

Salander had not reacted well to fame. She had left the country almost immediately after she was allowed. It hadn't been her intention at first, but after catching a glimpse of a candid photo of herself, standing outside of her Fiskargatan apartment on _She _one evening, Salander knew she had no other option. She couldn't stay in Sweden. Not while cameramen swarmed her and put her photo on the evening news. No. Salander liked her privacy, and she didn't like people nosing about in her business. Besides, she still had her few secrets to guard.

Salander had retreated to France after that. There, at least, she wasn't so much of a spectacle. She spent a few blissful weeks with Miriam Wu, her friend and occasional lover, before leaving for Germany. And then Belgium. And then Italy. She traveled all over Europe before finally returning to Sweden, almost a year later.

Upon her return, Salander discovered two things. The first was that the public's interest in her had waned, significantly, much to her relief. The second thing Salander discovered, was that it was very difficult for her to avoid people she didn't want to speak to, while living within a close proximity to them.

Salander stubbed her cigarette out in one of the many, ever-present, overflowing ashtrays, strategically placed around her apartment. She undressed, quickly, leaving her clothes in a messy heap on the living room floor, and then walked into the bathroom. Salander turned on the shower, and stood under the hot water for thirty minutes, trying to sort through her current to-do list.

She had a boring job to finish for Armonsky, a much overdue visit to pay to Holger Palmgren, and three e-mails from Annika Giannini that required her response. Each obligation troubled her for a different reason. The job, mostly because it pissed her off. Running the background check on a guy who was clearly no one to worry about felt like busy work to Salander, but Armonsky had insisted that if she were to return to Milton Security, she would have to start off slow. _Fine, _she thought. _I'll play your little game. We'll see how far it get's us. _She bit her lip hard, frustrated, and bored out of her mind.

The visit to see Palmgren was an even more troubling prospect. Salander had put off seeing him for almost a year, despite the fact that he'd supported her throughout her allegations. She knew this probably made her a horrible person— and an even worse friend— but every time she tried to picture their reunion, Salander found herself at a lost for words. What exactly should she say to the man who stood by her from the very start? She felt strangely indebted to Palmgren, and that made her more uncomfortable than anything else.

Salander tipped her head back, letting the hot water smooth her short, black hair back, until it pressed against her head like a bathing cap. She lightly brushed her fingertips over the thick scar on the side of her scalp— a reminder of the bullet— and the men— who almost took her life. She sighed.

Of all the tasks at hand, the e-mails to Giannini would be the least difficult. Throughout her entire European excursion, Salander kept a sort of infrequent correspondence with her feminist lawyer. Lisbeth found Annika easy to talk to. She supposed Giannini was much like her brother, in that sense.

Salander frowned, slightly, and shut off the water. She climbed out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and stood, dripping on the cold, tile floor. For the first time in ages, she let herself think of Mikael Blomkvist— really think of him. She wondered what he was doing now— who he was with. Last she'd heard, Mikael was in an uncharacteristically monogamous relationship with an agent at SAPO. A tiny smile spread across Salander's lips. For some reason, the notion of Blomkvist, playing house with a spy made her giggle softly to herself. She dried her hair with her towel, and then wandered into her bedroom.

She glanced at the clock.

_Five a.m. _

Salander reached over to turn off the lamp on her bedside table. Only then did she notice her mobile blinking.

_Missed messages._

She snatched the phone up eagerly. She entered her passcode, and found— to her confusion— a message she hadn't seen in a long, long time.

_New updates from your Yahoo! Group: Night's of the Idiotic Table. _

Salander opened her web browser and logged into her Yahoo! account.

She paused for a moment before opening the message from Blomkvist.

_Lisbeth, _

_ Long time, no see. Are you in Sweden? We need to meet. I have to talk to you. It's about Henrik Vanger, and apparently, it's of the utmost importance. _

_ -Mikael_

Salander frowned. _Henrik Vanger? _She shook her head, incredulously.

Kalle Fucking Blomkvist was at it again.


	2. Slow Progression

Before leaving for the day, Blomkvist took on the long-overdue task of scrubbing down his apartment. He filled three black garbage bags with trash, before toting them out to the bin around back. He changed his sheets, did three loads of laundry, and pitifully cleared the stale perishables out of his freezer. Then he scrubbed off the table, stacked up his old newspapers, and tackled the ever-growing mountain of dishes in his sink. When he was done, he took a step back and examined his newly cleaned apartment. Only then did he feel the tiniest pang of despair.

Blomkvist grabbed his coat, and mobile, and walked out onto Bellmansgatan. The street was empty, save for a few cars parked sporadically beside the curb. Blomkvist passed his own car without thinking twice. He always preferred walking.

The walk to Millennium was quiet and lonely. Blomkvist found his thoughts drifting as he made he way towards the tiny office where he and his colleagues worked. He briefly stopped to ponder Frode's call that morning, wondering if Salander would ever get back to him. _Probably not, _he decided. He'd long since given up on maintaining any kind of regular contact with the woman. Last he heard, she was off gallivanting across Europe, stopping only every once in a great while to send a curt email to Blomkvist's sister, Annika, in whom Salander had found an unlikely friend. Blomkvist felt a stab of envy, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He was glad Lisbeth had befriended his sister. He was the one who introduced them, after all. Still, the feeling reminded Blomkvist of a conversation he had with Annika, just after he had cleared his name, following the horrible Wennestrom affair. Annika was sitting across from him, over a meal, when she finally expressed her anguish over never having been asked to represent him in court. Blomkvist had felt guilty. His sister was a lawyer, after all. Maybe he _should _have gone to her, rather than someone else.

Now he felt the other side of the story. He'd fought for Salander relentlessly. He was her friend when no one else dared to be. He found her supporters. He published her story. He cleared her name.

And now she was off, running around the continent, speaking only to his little sister, and never to Mikael, himself.

Blomkvist frowned, and tried not to feel too resentful. Salander, he reminded himself, had always been odd. She wasn't socially equipped to maintain any kind of real, sustainable relationship. That was just the way she was.

Blomkvist stopped at the top of the stairs, leading up to the Millennium office. He took a deep breathed, rubbed his numb hands together, and stepped inside.

The office was, of course, completely empty. For the first time since leaving the house, Blomkvist got a good look at an actual clock. Six-forty-five. He shook his head, and began to clear off his cluttered desk. He probably had at least another good two hours before anyone showed up for work. He could get a lot done in that time.

Lately, Blomkvist had been grappling with a paralyzing bout of writers block, which was undeniably showing in _Millennium's_ most recent publications. Without his articles to fill page-space, the magazine was growing thinner, and thinner, and the tension in the office only intensified as the days wore on.

It seemed, no matter what he did, Blomkvist just couldn't muster up the interest to see a project through to completion. At first, he'd blamed this sudden bout of apathy on the waning of Salander's case, which had absorbed so much of his attention, for so long. After that, he pinned the blame on his atrocious break up with Monica Figuerola…

Blomkvist sighed and rubbed his brow. He tried his best not to think of Monica, and their tragically bitter end. Every time he pictured her face, he felt shattered, like a schoolboy rejected by his first love. For a while, he had truly believed that things might work out between the two of them— that he might settle down again. Get married. Become stable.

But no. Things never did work out quite so smoothly. Blomkvist sighed and stared out the window, overlooking Götgatan. He sat in front of his computer, and wracked his brain for any scrap of a story. When nothing came to mind, he checked the Knights of the Idiotic Table Yahoo! group. Of course, there was no response from Salander. One could only hope for so much. Blomkvist got up, made coffee, and then went back to the window. He stood motionless for several moments, trying to calculate his next movie.

Frode was right about one thing; it _would _be bad business to avoid Henrik's funeral. Like it or not, Blomkvist shared a connection with this man, that connection being his much-beloved grandniece, Harriet, who was now CEO of the Vanger company, and who just-so-_happened _to sit on the board at _Millennium._ Blomkvist frowned. Staying away from Harriet would be bad for business. And since he wasn't really contributing much as it was…

Blomkvist sighed and glanced around the empty office. He walked over to his desk, sat down, and typed up a short note to Erika Berger.

_Ricky, _

_By the time you read this, I'll be gone. Jesus. That sounded cryptic. What I mean is, I'm taking a short leave. Probably until after the Christmas holidays. I'm going to visit my daughter, and then returning to Hedestad to tend to some unfinished business. I'm sorry to leave you with only this message, but unfortunately I'm a bit short on time. The problem in Hedestad has come out of nowhere, but please understand that I'm doing what I have to do for the sake of the magazine. _

_Love, _

_Micke. _

Blomvist sent the e-mail, grabbed his coat, and walked back home. When he reached his apartment, it was nearly seven-thirty. He pulled out an old suitcase, and filled it with warm clothes. God knew he wasn't looking forward to another winder on Hedeby Island. He shivered just thinking about it. When he was all finished packing, Blomkvist dug his mobile out of his pocket and decided to pay her daughter a call. She lived half-way between Stockholm and Hedeby, and Mikael hadn't seen her in a while. It seemed only fitting that he visit her along the way.

It wasn't until Blomkvist hung up with Pernilla that he truly realized what he was doing. He walked over to his computer and checked his Yahoo! group one last time. Still, no reply.

It didn't matter, he realized. Business was business, and he would have to return to Hedestad with, or without Salander by his side. That was just the way things were.

Still, Blomkvist couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment.

Salander woke up to the shrill sound of hr phone ringing. She reached out blindly and fumbled with her mobile before answering.

"Lisbeth Salander?"

"Mmm."

"It's Erika Berger."

Salander's eyes snapped open. She stared up at her off-white texture ceiling, mentally running through the list of everyone who had her phone number. Giannini. Palmgren. Armonsky.

_Armonsky._

"What do you want?" Salander asked, monotone.

"I'm calling about Micke— about Mikael."

Salander's eyes narrowed. "I don't speak to him."

"I thought you'd say that," Berger said. "So there's no chance you know why he's going to Hedestad?"

Salander frowned. She didn't say anything.

Berger sighed. "I figured it was a long shot," she said. "Sorry to have bothered you, Froken Salander. I'm just worried about him…"

"Why is he in Hedestad?" Lisbeth asked, abruptly.

"I'm not sure," Berger admitted. "He's been rather withdrawn lately. Then, out of the blue, I get this cryptic e-mail from him saying he's off to Hedestad to tend to some unfinished business or something like that. It's all very strange…"

_Unfinished business? _Salander thought. As far as she knew, the last _business _Mikael had on Hedeby Island had to do with Henrik Vanger, who'd proved himself to be a slime and a liar, at least in Salander's eyes. Still, compared to his relatives, Henrik seemed like a regular angel. Salander recalled Henrik's grandnephew Martin Vanger. The mere memory made her skin crawl. Hedestad, she had decided, was a place simply swarming with fools, and creeps. She never wanted to go back there. She couldn't imagine why Mikael _would. _

"Do you know something?" Berger asked. "Honestly, we could treat this like an article. You could be a protected source. If you have information on Mikael—"

"— I don't have any information," Salander said, simply. Then she hung up her mobile, tossed it aside, and climbed out of bed.

She found her laptop quickly, and opened Asphyxia 1.5. Without thinking, she hacked into an account she hadn't touched in almost a year.

_Desktop: Mikael Blomkvist… Loading… Log in…_

Salander bypassed the security without a problem. She found Blomkvist's email to Berger within seconds.

_I'm going to visit my daughter, and then returning to Hedestad to tend to some unfinished business… _

Salander opened up Blomkvist's address book and quickly found his daughter's place of residence. Pernilla Blomkvist, it seemed, lived close to half-way between Stockholm and Hedeby Island. Lisbeth shook her head. Blomkvist really was headed back to that decrepit place. But why? She checked the Knights of the Idiotic Table Yahoo! group, but found nothing more. She checked his hard drive thoroughly, but found no further information there, either. Finally, she slammed her laptop closed, and went to her mobile again.

She dialed a familiar number.

Giannini picked up on the second ring.

"Lisbeth?" she asked, obviously having seen her former-client's name show up on her caller I.D. "Is something wrong?"

"Why is Mikael going to Hedeby Island?" Salander demanded. She was nothing if not frank in conversation.

"I— What?" Giannini seemed confused.

"Your brother," Salander began. "He's going to Hedestad. Do you know why?"

Giannini sighed. "Lisbeth, I told you. I'm not interested in being involved with your relationship with Mikael—"

"— This isn't about my relationship. I just need to know."

Giannini sighed again. "I don't know," she said, finally. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"Thanks," Salander said, through clenched teeth. The word was coming more easily now, with Annika. She hung up the phone, crammed her laptop, and a couple of changes of clothes into a small messenger bag, showered, made coffee, and then set off.

She was doing what any rational person would do.

She was following Mikael Blomkvist to Hedestad.


	3. Neurotic People Die Old

**Once again, disclaimer: This is my very first Millennium fanfic. Blame any errors on my lack-of-experience, if you please. Thanks so much to everyone who's read/favorited so far. Means a lot to me! :)**

**~TruthIsOutThere**

**P.S.- Just throwing it out there. I really dig reviews, too. Just saying. **

Blomkvist arrived at his daughter's apartment around five 'o' clock that evening.

He had to knock twice before someone came to the door.

A tall woman with dark brown hair stood in the doorway. She wore a pair of sweatpants and a jogging bra, iPod headphones slung over her arm.

"Sorry," she said, breathlessly. "I was working out. Didn't hear the door." She reached out and grabbed a water bottle from an unseen table beyond the doorway. She took a healthy swig and wiped her mouth on the back of her wrist. "How can I help you?"

Blomvist felt a familiar pang of loneliness looking at the young girl. Her hair was pulled back— her face, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Blomkvist would have been attracted to her, had he not felt overwhelmed with nostalgia for his ex-fiancé, Monica Figuerola, who had spent every moment of her free time at the gym. Every moment she wasn't with Blomkvist, of course.

"Um. Is Pernilla home?" Blomkvist asked, uncomfortably. He rocked back and forth on his heels. On the one hand, he didn't want to be intrusive, but on the other hand, the journalist inside of him was absolutely dying to ask this woman how he knew her daughter.

"Nilla? Yeah. She's in the other room." The woman smiled pleasantly, then cast a glance over her shoulder. "Nilla!" she called. "It's for you!"

"For me?" Mikael heard his daughter's muffled voice, from the other room.

The stranger turned his attention back to Mikael. "Who are you?" she asked. She tipped her head to the side, curiously scrutinizing this man who had so abruptly shown up on her doorstep.

"I'm Pernilla's father," Blomkvist said, incredulously. "And who are you?"

The woman smiled.

Just then Pernilla appeared in the doorway.

"Daddy?" she asked, sounding baffled. She glanced around, shivering. "Come in," she said. "Tish, get away from the door. You'll catch hypothermia dressed like that. Come in, come in." Pernilla ushered her father through the doorway. "Daddy, I see you've met Tish. My roommate."

"I didn't know you had a roommate," Blomkvist admitted.

"You should come visit more often," Pernilla said. There was no resentment in her voice. Pernilla was always pleasant, even to those who didn't deserve it.

The familiar feeling of guilt washed over Blomkvist. Though they didn't always agree, Mikael had always loved his daughter dearly. Sometimes, in her presence, he felt as if he'd been neglectful to her during her teen years. Now she was an adult, living her own life. He hardly knew her. It troubled him.

"I should," Blomkvist agreed. He decided then to make a real effort to make this a commitment.

Pernilla gave him a warm smile.

"What are you doing way out here, daddy?" she asked, standing on her tiptoes to brush a bit of snow off the shoulder of his coat. "If I had known you were visiting, I would have cleaned the place up a bit."

"I know, I know. I should have called." Blomkvist gave his daughter an apologetic look. "I'm afraid this is all something of a last minute trip, though."

Pernilla pursed her lips, looking pensive.

"Come have some coffee with us," she resolved, leading him into the kitchen. "You can tell me all about it."

Blomkvist took a seat at Pernilla's table, across from Tish. He eyed her for a long moment. She flashed him a flirtatious grin. Blomkvist looked away, feeling instantly uncomfortable. Tish was too young— too much like his daughter while simultaneously too much like Monica.. She was attractive, of course, but he would never dream of it.

"Here you go, daddy. Tish." Pernilla handed out cups of coffee. She took a deep breath. "So," she said, taking a seat between her father and her roommate. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

Blomkvist rubbed the back of his head.

"I'm afraid it's a rather long story."

"The short version then," Tish cut in, smiling around the rim of her coffee mug. "You're a journalist, aren't you? You must have _some_ paraphrasing skills."

"Right," Blomkvist breathed. "Well, I suppose I'm on my way to a funeral."

"See?" Tish asked, raising an eyebrow. "Wasn't so hard."

Pernilla rolled her eyes. "Who's funeral, daddy?" she asked, resting her head on her hands, and looking lost in thought.

Blomkvist cleared his throat. "Henrik Vanger's, actually."

"Henrik Vanger?" Tish asked. "The CEO?"

_"Former _CEO," Blomkvist corrected. "But yes, we're talking about the same man."

"He's dead?" Tish asked.

"Apparently," Mikael said. "I got a call from his attorney this morning. I'm to head to Hedestad at once."

"Why is his _attorney _calling you?" Pernilla frowned.

_Clever girl, _Blomkvist thought. She analyzed things. Just like her father.

"It appears I was included in Herr Vanger's will," Blomkvist admitted. "In what way, I have no idea. That's why I'm going; to find out."

"Well, let's hope you got a lot of money," Tish said, wryly. She got up from the table and dumped her dishes in the sink. "That's what I'd be hoping for."

"Tish," Pernilla scolded. She turned back to her father. "Is Herr Vanger paying all of his former employees?"

"I was hardly his _employee,"_ Blomkvist reasoned. "I wrote his memoir."

"You know what I mean."

Blomkvist let out a long, slow breath. "I'm not sure," he said, finally. He looked at his daughter. She was frowning— trying to work something out. Undoubtedly the same thing he'd been pondering all day. "From the way Herr Vanger's attorney phrased things, I don't think so. I think I'm an exception."

"You alone?" Pernilla asked, sipping her coffee.

"Well, not _only _me," Blomkvist shrugged. "Lisbeth as well."

"Lisbeth Salander?" Tish asked, abruptly re-entering the kitchen. Clearly this was a topic that interested her more than a dead man's will.

"My father worked with her on Hedeby Island, nearly four years ago," Pernilla said, before Blomkvist could answer, himself.

"My, my. You _do _mingle with celebrities, don't you?" Tish asked, shaking her head.

Blomkvist chuckled. "Lisbeth would kill you if she heard you say that."

"Say what? That she's a celebrity?" Tish looked amused.

"She hates it," Blomkvist said, splaying his hands out on the table. "She absolutely _loathes _the attention."

"I can imagine…" Pernilla sighed, sympathetic as always. "If I had gone through what she has…" Nilla shivered. "I don't think I would have survived."

Blomkvist tried his very best not to imagine his daughter in Lisbeth's position. Once again, he was reminded of the true horror story that was Lisbeth Salander's life. He shivered, too.

"She's strong," Tish remarked. Then she looked up at Blomkvist. "Do you know where she is?"

"Running around Europe, last I heard. Can't really expect her to hang around Sweden while people shove cameras in her face." Blomkvist shrugged. "I tried writing…"

"Aunt Anika talked to her," Pernilla reminded him.

Blomkvist nodded. "Yes. There's that, at least."

"I'd love to meet her. She seems fascinating," Tish said, resting her elbows on the counter. She stared at Blomkvist with intent eyes. Blomkvist realized then that his daughter's new roommate shared certain qualities with his long-time lover, Erika Berger, as well. Strange, it seemed the comparisons never stopped. With her persistence, and curiosity, Tish would probably make a decent journalist.

"I never asked you what she's like," Pernilla said. She too, seemed oddly curious about LIsbeth Salander. Blomkvist wondered how such an introverted, socially disconnected person even became a national phenomenon.

He realized he didn't blame her for leaving.

"She's the most hard-headed, perseverant person I've ever known," Blomkvist said, finally. "Outsiders… think she's crazy," he continued. "But really she's just different. It's like her mind works on a completely different track or something." He shrugged. "She's absolutely brilliant, and no one gives her credit for it. That's the most heartbreaking thing about Lisbeth. She's a complete genius, but no one will ever know, because their heads are full of inaccurate, preconceived notions about her. It's ridiculous. It's devastating. It kills me, and I don't fully understand why."

Salander carried her helmet under her arm, into the 7-11 around the corner from Pernilla Blomkvist's house.

She gazed at the decrepit selection of stale Hostess cupcakes, dented paper milk cartons, and burnt hot dogs, spinning on a rotisserie.

"Can I help you?" a man behind the counter asked.

Salander grabbed three bottles of coke, two packs of cigarettes, and a lighter. She bought a slice of questionable-looking pizza, had it microwaved, then went outside, sat in the snow, smoked, and had a late lunch.

At this point, Salander was beginning to think that maybe following Mikael hadn't been her smartest move. The moment she arrived at Pernilla's— close to an hour after he did— she found herself paralyzed— unsure of what to do, or say. She didn't feel like she could just walk up to the door and introduce herself. Even if she did, what would Mikael do? Salander's reunion with Blomkvist was beginning to seem equally as daunting as her dreaded reunion with Holger Palmgren. Lisbeth ate the rest of her pizza and brooded in silence. When she finished, she dumped her plate in the trash, smoked two cigarettes, and rode out to an Internet café she saw on her way into town.

Only there did she think to utilize a near-forgotten resource.

_Welcome to Hacker Republic, Citizen Wasp. It has been sixty-seven days since your last visit. What would you like to do?_

Lisbeth decided to compose a message.

_To: Plague and Trinity_

_From: Wasp_

_Any interest in doing a big hack? A good deal of money is probably involved._

Her response came less than two minutes later.

_To: Wasp_

_From: Plague_

_Who are we hacking? Hypothetically, of course._

_To: Plague_

_From: Wasp_

_Hypothetically, we're hacking the Vanger company._

_To: Wasp, Plague_

_From: Tinity_

_Why?_

_To: Plague, Trinity_

_From: Wasp_

_I need some info._

_To: Plague, Wasp_

_From: Trinity_

_And you say there's cash?_

_To: Plague, Trinity_

_From: Wasp_

_There always is._

_To: Wasp, Trinity_

_From: Plague_

_Count me in. _

_To: Plague, Wasp_

_From: Trinity_

_Me too._

_To: Plague, Trinity_

_From: Wasp_

_Details to come… _

Salander closed her laptop, bought a coffee, and left. She drove past Pernilla Blomkvist's apartment again. She wondered if Mikael was still there. Salander circled the apartment at least six times, looking for any sign of him. Ideally, she could find him alone and explain herself… or something.

Finding no trace of Blomkvist, Salander rode on. She stopped at another Internet café. She looked at Blomkvist's computer, and found nothing of any importance. She had three more slices of pizza. She smoked her way through both packs of cigarettes. Finally, she got back on her bike, and drove to Pernilla Blomkvist's apartment again. Salander camouflaged herself in the bushes across the street, leaned back against a telephone poll, and stood stalk-still, waiting.

She would wait until he came out of the apartment. He had to eventually.

_Eventually _proved to be a very long time, though. Long enough for Salander to grow antsy again, and begin to wonder if Blomkvist was even _there, _or if he left_. _She stepped off the curb and crossed the desolate street, climbing the stairs to Pernilla Blomkvist's flat. She stood by one of the frosted back windows, and rubbed it clean with her shirtsleeve. She couldn't see well through the cloudy glass, but Salander thought for sure that she could make out three, distinct figures. She took a step away from the window, lit her final cigarette, and leaned over the balcony, wondering what to do next.

It was then that the door opened.

Salander shot off like a dart, kicking her feet up over the railing and lowering herself onto the terrace below. She clambered down slowly, listening for a familiar voice.

"It was nice seeing you daddy," someone— presumably Pernilla Blomkvist— said. Her voice was quiet— soft.

"Drop by again some time," a second female's voice crooned. Salander frowned and pulled her coat closer in the frigid air.

"I'll try to drop by on my way home."

Blomkvist's voice sent a jolt of energy down Salander's spine. She hadn't anticipated that. Salander gulped, and scrambled across the icy side yard, towards the street. She made it to the bottom of the stairs, then paused, pressing her back against the cement stairwell.

Salander listened carefully. She could hear footsteps coming down the staircase. Slowly, she retreated back under the porch. She stood in the shadowy darkness for a long moment, waiting for Mikael Blomkvist to emerge— and then disappear.

_Why am I here? _Salander wondered, for the millionth time. Why had she followed Mikael all this way?

The front gate clattered open, and Blomkvist appeared in the front courtyard. Salander followed him, keeping a safe distance. When his taxi arrived, she got onto her motorcycle, and followed him to the train station. She lingered there for half an hour until she knew his train had departed.

Then she set off on the long trip to Hedestad.

Three hours later, Salander crossed the bridge on the Hedeby Island. She once left this god-forsaken place with the feeling of closure. Now, she felt as if she were on the cusp of something new and undiscovered.

Salander wasn't sure she liked that.


	4. Clenched Jaws and Clenched Fists

**Thank you guys so much for your feedback. Really helps me to keep going. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far and I PROMISE next chapter there will be some legitimate story progression. There are only so many scenes you can set on the **_**drive **_**to Hedestad, after all. : )**

**~TruthIsOutThere**

Two conflicting transportation schedules, three luggage mishaps, and a minor medical emergency all contributed to Mikael Blomkvist's train arriving in Hedestad almost two hours later than expected.

Blomkvist peered out his window as the train rolled into the station. He grabbed his coat and hat from the empty seat beside him. From the looks of it, the temperature on Hedeby Island had definitely dropped below zero. He shivered at the thought, and collected his things, hastily. The sooner he got to the Vanger Estate the better.

Waiting for him in the station was a rather impatient looking Dirch Frode, dressed appropriately in a heavy coat and knit scarf that made him look positively friendly. Blomkvist knew better, of course. Still, he greeted Frode diplomatically, and following him to his car in the parking lot.

"I hope your trip was pleasant," Frode said, as he pulled out of the lot.

"Pleasant but long," Blomkvist replied. "Mind if I turn on the heat?"

"Be my guest," Frode said. He gave a little cough into his closed fist. "All this cold is unhealthy. I'm convinced it was this monstrous winter that finally drove Henrik over the edge." He shook his head.

"He passed of natural causes then?" Blomkvist asked. "At least it wasn't anything painful."

"Painful?" Frode asked. "Maybe not. But I'm afraid Herr Vanger did indeed have his fair share of hard times leading up to the end."

"How so?" Blomkvist asked, curiously. He shifted around in his seat.

"Oh well…" Frode breathed. "The poor man lost his mind! It was tragic really. One day he'd be… livid. So alive." Frode's eyes gleamed at the mere memory. "The next day he wouldn't remember his own name." He shook his head, and Blomkvist wondered if Frode might still be mourning his oldest client and friend.

"How long has he been dead?" Blomkvist asked.

"Three days," Frode said, with a curt nod. "The family is in a state of absolute turmoil. It seems no one knows what to do anymore…"

"How do you mean?" Blomkvist frowned.

"Well, no matter how loathsome and beaten down he may have found his own relatives, Henrik Vanger was always the patriarch of the family," Frode explained. "Even those who hated him had a degree of respect for the man. Either he had the job they wanted, or he had the job they didn't want. Either way, he was the most functional Vanger of all, and being functional commands a degree of respect."

Blomkvist nodded slowly.

"Now that he's dead people don't know what to do with themselves," Frode reiterated.

"Well, I'd assume they would simply carry on with their lives," Blomkvist said.

"Under normal circumstances I would agree…" Frode said. "But you're forgetting that the Vanger family is less of a family, and more of a business."

"But Henrik stepped down years ago," Blomkvist argued.

"That may be true," Frode said. "But it doesn't change that fact that Henrik was always a sort of… _figurehead _for the Vanger Company. Even when _Martin_ was in charge—" he spat out Martin Vanger's name, as if it were poisonous. "People always looked to Henrik. He was a great leader— a great man. He accomplished things in his lifetime others could only dream of. When he stepped down as CEO the only thing that really changed was the he no longer had to sign paperwork. People still came to him for big decisions, and they continued to do that after Harriet was appointed as CEO, and right up until his death."

There was a brief silence as they crossed the bridge.

"I'm sure things will straighten out given time." Blomkvist shrugged.

"Of course," Frode explained. "But do we _have _the time?" he asked. "This is a temperamental economy, Herr Blomkvist, as I'm sure you know." He shook his head. "This is no time to be fiscally irresponsible."

"Harriet's CEO now," Blomkvist reasoned. "She's quite smart— very competent."

"Yes, of course," Frode nodded. "But she also disappeared for forty years."

"With good reason," Blomkvist pressed.

"With good reason indeed," Frode said. "She has my complete sympathy. She has _your _complete sympathy. But you can't expect the detestable Vanger's to sympathize with anyone. The truth of the matter is; she's not trusted. In the wake of Henrik's death, people are scared for their finances— scared for their livelihood. No one is willing to put their faith in an unreliable girl who hid herself away from the family and the business for forty years— good reason or not."

Blomkvist tried to think of an adequate argument for Harriet's sake. He knew the woman well. He'd spent a considerably amount of time with her since he had first found her in Australia four years before. Harriet had adjusted to family life well. She was incredibly intelligent, and a born leader. Blomkvist had no doubt in his mind that she was the right person to run the Vanger Company. A person would have to be exceptionally ignorant— or possibly _blind— _not to see that. Blomkvist frowned and gazed out the window, as they passed Susanne's Bridge Café.

That's when he saw it.

"Frode, pull over, would you?"

"Lord, did you see another broken down car?" Dirch asked, shaking his head. "I had to drive four families across the bridge during the two hours I waited for you, alone. This is no weather for cars, and no weather for people."

"No, no, it's not that. Just… pull over."

"Alright," Frode said, with a tiny shrug. He stopped the car by the side of the road. Blomkvist opened his door.

"W— Where are you going?" Frode asked, over the howling wind.

"The café," Blomkvist shouted back. "I thought I saw someone I know."

He slammed the door and jogged over to tiny parking lot in front of Susanne's.

The only vehicle parked in the desolate lot was a Honda CB350. Blomkvist brushed his hand across the deep black veneer. He shook his head in disbelief.

This was Lisbeth's bike.

Blomkvist ran into the café, glancing around, frantically.

"Oh, hello, Mikael," Susanne said. She stood behind the counter, polishing a collection of empty teacups. "Haven't seen you in a while. Have you come for Henrik's funeral?"

Blomkvist, heart pounding, gave a quick nod, and looked around himself. The café was empty.

"I was just about to close up," Susanne said, following his gaze around the room.

"Great… Listen…" Blomkvist rubbed the back of his head. "You didn't see a girl come through here did you?"

"Through here?" Susanne asked. "I see girls come through here all day, Mikael. Care to be more specific?"

"It would have been recently," Blomkvist said. He could deduce that alone from the small amount that had collected on Salander's bike. "You know the woman. Small. Piercings."

"Oh, your girlfriend." Susanne got a nasty look on her face. She— like many others in Hedestad— had approved of Blomkvist straight up until he took Lisbeth in. From then on he was seen as another deranged sex-fiend living with a woman half-his-age.

"Lisbeth," Blomkvist corrected her. "Has she come through here?"

"Yeah, actually," Susanne said. "She was my final customer for the day. She came in here ten minutes ago. Bought a pack of cigarettes, and a coffee to go."

Blomkvist felt his heart accelerate even faster. "Do you know where she went?"

Susanne craned her neck to see out the large, glass windows on the south wall of the café.

"Out there somewhere," she said, nodding in the direction of the woods. "I saw her smoking by that window for a few minutes. Then she disappeared. I figured she probably went for a walk, though I don't know why anyone would want to in this weather." Susanne shivered.

"Brilliant," Blomkvist breathed, pulling his coat closer around himself. He pushed the door open and ventured back out into the frigid air, shouting thanks over his shoulder.

Salander jammed her hands in her pockets and stubbed out her cigarette. She turned around to make the trek back up the hill to her bike. It was getting dark out. If she waited any longer she ran the risk of getting lost out here. Having already seen her fair share of horrifying things on Hedeby Island, Lisbeth had no real interest in sticking around to see what came out after dark.

It was at the top of the hill that she saw him, silhouetted against the purple sky. She would have walked right into him, had she not looked up at the exact right second.

"Goddamn, you walk fast," he said, his breath a plume of steam in the freezing air.

Salander stared at him, startled and partially horrified.

"Didn't get my message then?" Blomkvist asked, holding up mobile.

"I got them," Salander said. "I'm here."

"Yes, but I suppose you didn't care to let me _know _you were coming."

"I don't report to you," Salander said. She pushed passed him, her head down.

Blomkvist let out a sigh of frustration.

"Lisbeth!" he called, jogging to keep up with her. He caught her arm, and she promptly flinched away. "Lisbeth," he panted. "At least let me drive you the rest of the way."

"I have my own means of transportation," Salander said, without looking at him.

"The roads are frozen," Blomkvist argued. Salander started walking away again. "Lisbeth!" Blomkvist called. "Lisbeth!"

"What do you want?" Salander said, finally, stopping in the middle of the parking lot.

"Listen, Lisbeth," Blomkvist began. "I'm mad at you, if that's what you think."

"I'm not mad at you, either," Salander said, staring fixatedly at the road behind him. "I have to go." She started off again, when he caught her shoulder. She stood, frozen. He slowly retracted his hand.

"What?" Salander asked, her back to him.

"I—" Blomkvist began. He seemed to be searching for the right words. "I… hope you enjoyed your trip."

The sound of footsteps caught both of their attention.

"Ah! Froken Salander!" Dirch Frode called out. "I see you've chosen to join us. Fantastic. Would you like a ride up to the estate?"

"I've got it," Salander said, quickly. She passed Frode, briskly, swung her leg over her bike, put on her helmet, and allowed herself one, quick look at Blomkvist before she rode away. She could sense them staring at her as she left, and looked away, pointedly, avoiding their bewildered gazes.

Salander knew she would have to do better next time. There would be no avoiding Blomkvist at the Vanger estate.

_Plus, _she thought. _Do I really want to avoid him?_

Salander wasn't sure. The one thing she _was _sure of was that Blomkvist was right— the roads were icy. She focused all her energy on driving, and left the rest behind.


	5. And Then It Began

Salander was not at the Vanger estate when Blomkvist and Frode arrived, fifteen minutes later. For a moment, Blomkvist feared she may have had a change of heart and turned around, or worse; maybe she'd wrecked her bike on all of this ice. The latter, he decided, was highly implausible. If anyone could evade death, it was Lisbeth Salander. Blomkvist knew that better than anyone.

Any residual fears Blomkvist may have felt dissipated instantly as he followed Frode up the drive. Only then did he notice Salander, standing off to the side of the estate. She was nearly invisible, dressed all in black. Only the tip of her cigarette could be seen, glowing softly in the snowy haze.

Blomkvist couldn't see her bike anywhere. She must have parked somewhere else.

Frode let out a huff and turned to Blomkvist.

"What's the matter?" Mikael asked, pulling his coat more tightly around himself. His face was going numb.

"Someone moved the key," Frode grumbled.

"What? You don't carry one with you?" Blomkvist asked.

Frode shook his head. "I gave my copy of the key to Cecilia. She's been placed in charge of distributing Henrik's possessions. She and Gunnar spent the evening lugging boxes in and out of the house… I left the key with her, thinking she'd be here when we returned. And then your train was later."

"And then my train was late," Blonkvist sighed. "Well, where's Cecilia?" he asked, rubbing his hands together. He hoped the friction would bring him warmth. His efforts were in vain, though. It was nearly twenty below zero— uncommonly cold, even for Hedestad.

Frode looked conflicted.

"Where is Cecilia?" Blomkvist repeated.

With a sigh, Frode strode back down the drive. "I imagine she's with Harriet," he said. "Follow me."

Blomkvist did as he was told, stepping off of the porch. He couldn't help but feel slightly annoyed with the old man. Blomkvist really had no desire to be in Hedestad in the first place, let alone stand around outside in this weather…

Out of the corner of his eye, Blomkvist saw Salander stamp out her cigarette, and follow them, keeping a safe distance. Mikael lagged back slightly, hoping to walk beside her. Of course, Salander never made things that easy. She dawdled mercilessly, seemingly unaffected by the cold, until Blomkvist felt obligated to hurry and keep up with Frode. He frowned. Of all his unusual interactions with Salander, this was verging on the most absurd. He couldn't understand why she insisted on keeping her distance. Then again, Blomkvist rarely ever understood Salander's actions. He accepted long ago that she was unpredictable.

Still, every once in a while he _wished _he had some kind of grasp on what went on in her head. Salander rarely talked about herself. She was adamant in her solidarity. She maintained regular contact with very few people. Mikael was not one of them.

Blomkvist felt the familiar stab of jealousy return, as he realized Annika— maybe even _Erika— _had exchanged more words with Salander in the past year than he had. For someone who fought so vehemently for justice, Salander could be painfully unjust when she wanted to be.

"Where does Harriet live?" Blomkvist asked, finally. He couldn't keep himself from shivering in the frigid headwind.

"Just up the hill. Not much further," Frode said. "Harriet's house was constructed here six months ago," he explained. "We offered her any of the empty houses— God knows there are enough of them— but she said she wanted a place that was entirely her own."

Blomkvist nodded. _This _he could understand. After enduring so many traumatic events in Hedestad, he was surprised Harriet agreed to live on the island at all.

Blomkvist gazed at his surroundings, barely visible in the midst of the storm. He recognized Isabella Vanger's house, one second-floor light glowing dimly in the night. Blomkvist had read a number of articles that stated a person's outlook on life could control his or her lifespan. The more positive the person, the longer the lifespan. Supposedly. In this sense, it amazed Mikael that Isabelle had outlived Henrik. Never in his life had Blomkvist encountered a colder, or more hateful woman. Her own negligence had nearly cost her daughter her life. Blomkvist wondered if Isabella had said a word to Harriet since her return.

They rounded the corner a moment later. Blomkvist stopped, finding himself in front of a large estate with a grand entry, and at least three floors.

"It's a little extravagant," Frode said, noticing Blomkvist's stare. "But after everything she's been through, we all agreed Harriet should have every luxury."

Blomkvist gave a wordless nod. There was no arguing with that.

Frode rang the doorbell.

Only then did Blomkvist notice Salander standing off to his right. She must have caught up when he wasn't paying attention. He met her eyes, holding her gaze for all of three seconds before the door opened.

"Oh, Frode. I'm sorry. Come in, come in."

Cecilia Vanger stood in the doorway, an apologetic look on her face.

"You must be freezing to death. I can't believe I forgot."

Cecilia ushered her guests through the doorway, taking coats and hats, and apologizing profusely. Frode strode into the foyer and called for Harriet, while Cecilia appraised Blomkvist with her scrutinizing gaze.

"Hello, Mikael," she said. There was an edge to her voice, as always.

"Nice to see you," Blomkvist said, as pleasantly as possible. Of all the woman he had spent time with in recent years, Cecilia Vanger was by far the most complicated. During their brief time together, she had developed an attachment to him. And though she knew, without a shadow of a doubt that she _did not_ want to fall in love, Cecilia Vanger had gone against her better instincts and pursued their relationship until it turned into just that; love. On her part, anyway. Though she knew it was unreasonable, Cecilia resented Blomkvist for making her fall for him. She avoided him like the plague for the duration of his stay in Hedestad, four years before. But now he was back again, looking her square in the face with that same small, but confident smile.

Cecilia Vanger was not happy.

She seemed even _less _happy to see Salander, whom she greeted with a simple, curt nod. Cecilia had seen her on television, no doubt, as indicated by her general look of suspicion. After months of being called a 'murderer', a 'mad woman', and even a 'lesbian Satanist', many people still had no idea what to make of Lisbeth Salander.

Her name had been cleared only in the most lawful sense of the word.

On many occasions, Blomkvist had likened Salander's very-public defamation to libel, a subject he knew all too well. Unfortunately for Salander, she couldn't exactly sue all of Sweden for their wrongdoing. Not that she would ever want to. Blomkvist vaguely recalled reading somewhere that Lisbeth had flat-out refused all compensation offered for her trauma. She wasn't interested in people's sympathy, even when it came in the form of several thousand kroner.

Cecilia let out a defeated sigh, watching them both as her expression grew stern.

"Follow me then," she said, turning on her heel and leading her guests into Harriet's sitting room.

Cecilia took a seat across from Mikael, skillfully avoiding eye contact. Blomkvist glanced back and forth between her and Lisbeth. He quickly found himself wondering if this were some kind of skill known only to women. It seemed every female in the room was doing a fantastic job at unnecessarily averting her eyes.

Much to Blomkvist's relief, Harriet appeared in the doorway a moment later, a broad smile on her face.

"Mikael!" she said, crossing the floor to meet him. She embraced him quickly, and took his frozen hands in hers. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Frode called me this morning," Blomkvist explained. "He said something about the will…"

Harriet's smile faltered. "Yes, yes," she said, taking a seat. "That will all need to be dealt with eventually. But for now, how about a drink?" Harriet reached for a bottle of wine sitting on the table before her, and promptly poured five glasses.

Harriet sipped her wine, and gave a tight-lipped smile. She looked around the sitting area her eyes finally stopping just right of Blomkvist.

"Froken Salander, isn't it?" she asked, taking another sip of wine.

Salander nodded and took a drink herself. Blomkvist could tell she was uncomfortable. _That made two of them…_

"Frode spoke highly of your work finding me," Harriet explained. "He said you were an excellent researcher."

"Well she is," Frode chimed in. "The best I've ever seen."

"Well, I'm glad you came all this way," Harriet said, pleasantly. "I know it's quite the trek from Stockholm."

"Especially for Froken Salander," Frode pointed out. "She road a motorcycle all the way here from Lundagatan."

Blomkvist gave Salander a curious look. He knew for a fact that she hadn't occupied her Lundagatan apartment in at least three years. Mikael took comfort in the fact that he knew at least this much about her.

Harriet looked amused. "Did you really?" she asked, sitting forward. "My son Jeff used to ride quite a bit back in Australia."

"Is he still there?" Blomkvist asked. "Your son, I mean. Is he still in Australia?"

"Jeff? Oh yes," Harriet sighed. "I can't say I blame him. He has a life there."

"You had a life there too," Salander said. Her eyes were on the windowpane, watching the snow fall. There was a brief silence. It was the first thing she said since arriving at Harriet's.

"I did," Harriet shrugged. "Now my life is here. Funny how quickly things change." She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling. "I feel lucky to have left Hedestad for a while. Uncle Henrik never left, and I'm convinced it drove him to his wit's end. He should have gone away with me. I offered to take him to meet my son, but…" Harriet shook her head. She put her glass down. "He never agreed. He was always to busy here. Always too immersed in the family business, even when it wasn't _his _business to tend to anymore." She looked away, a touch of emotion in her voice.

"Henrik was always very devoted," Blomkvist offered. Harriet and Cecilia both nodded in agreement.

To Blomkvist's surprise, Harriet wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

"Lord help us all now that he's gone," she sniffed. "Everything's on the verge of collapsing."

"Oh, come now, I'm sure it's not that bad," Blomkvist said. "All businesses have their ups and downs. During the Wennerstöm event we thought _Millennium _was toast, but your uncle swooped in and kept us from crumbling. Opportunities always come around eventually."

Blomkvist knew these words were bullshit, even as he said them. As a financial journalist, he couldn't count the number of times he'd seen businesses sink because opportunities _did not _come. But Blomkvist liked Harriet Vanger. He hated to see her so distraught. He hoped, for her sake, that the Vanger Company was not in as bad of a condition as she was alluding it to be.

Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock let out a chime.

"Christ, is it already midnight?" Harriet asked. "I've kept you out late. Let me give you all a ride back to Henrik's. Come on."

"I'll head hope as well," Cecilia announced, getting to her feet. She gave her cousin a quick kiss on the cheek and then disappeared out the back door.

Harriet got up quickly and collected her things. She led the others to her car, parked

in the drive.

The ride home was a somber one. Few words were exchanged. In the dim light, Blomkvist thought he could feel Salander's gaze upon him. But it was too dark to be sure, and he didn't want to turn his head and risk scaring her off again.

Salander had never been one for frivolous living, a fact that had gained irony since she'd come into nearly 2.5 billion kronor in recent years.

At first, the money had been confusing. Having always lead a more-or-less impoverished lifestyle, Salander really had no idea what to do when granted full-access to the late Hans-Erik Wennerstrom's bank account. Her first order of business was purchasing an apartment in Fiskargatar and furnishing it as best as she could. Salander wasn't entirely sure why she did either of those things. It simply seemed right at the time. She didn't regret it. Her old place in Lundagaton was a dump, and it was nice to have a couch to sit on that wasn't torn to shreds. Shortly after her move, though, things slowed considerably. Salander grew bored with spending money and buying things unnecessarily. In time, she found herself reverting back to old behaviors. She wore clothes until they fell apart, and refused to shop until her cupboards were bare. Her only real expense now was cigarettes— she'd switched to a more lavish brand. Aside from that, Salander lived quietly. Her home was large, but many rooms were still empty— left unfurnished. Salander could recall the night Mikael Blomkvist came to visit her after her trail, he had explained to her that during his stay at her apartment, the empty rooms had always puzzled him.

"Must be nice to have more space than you know what to do with," Blomkvist had offered, between bites of bagel. "Or maybe it's just ridiculous."

Salander had only shrugged.

"It's a lovely place, really," Blomkvist had continued. "But I think I would get lonely staying here forever…"

Salander only shrugged again. She liked solitude. It was nice.

Salander liked to be left alone.

The Vanger estate was similar to Lisbeth's Fiskargatan apartment in the sense that it was huge, and largely useless. Following Frode through the house, Salander saw at least five rooms that were left completely vacant, and at least five more devoted entirely to housing boxed furniture, or unappealing artwork, or other such nonsense. Salander was suddenly glad she had empty rooms in her apartment. In her opinion, empty rooms were a lot nicer than rooms full of dusty crap no one cared for.

Salander followed Frode up the stairs to the guest quarters. She itched for a cigarette, but told herself to hold off until she got to her room. Smoking would calm her nerves, and Salander wasn't ready to be calm just yet. She had learned never to trust the Vanger family last time she visited Hedestad. That was not a lesson she would soon forget.

"I'm sorry I can't offer you your previous accommodations," Frode said, as he led Blomkvist and Salander down a long, narrow hallway. "I'm afraid the power in the guest house went out some months ago. I hope I was correct in assuming you would both prefer a place equipped with central heating?"

"You were correct indeed," Blomkvist said, still rubbing his hands together in an attempt to get his blood pumping.

"Good," Frode said. "I think you'll find the guest quarters very accommodating. You'll have an entire wing of the house to yourselves. There are five bedrooms— no, six— so you can each have your pick. The view in the sitting room really is quite lovely. The lake, as you'll remember, is absolutely gorgeous in the winter time."

Blomkvist nodded and stood aside as Frode approached a pair of double doors with a set of keys.

"Here we are," Frode said, pushing the doors open. "Here are your keys," he said, handing the key ring to Salander. "It's passed midnight now, so I'll have to be going. You'll be alone in the house until tomorrow morning when the guests start to arrive. Don't worry, they'll all be staying in a separate wing of the house."

"Thank you," Blomkvist said. "Good night."

"Good night," Frode said. He turned and disappeared down the hall.

Salander stood in the center of the sitting room. She gazed out the frosty window at the dark lake. From this angle, she could just barely make out the cabin she and Blomkvist lived in four years ago. It was dark, of course. Uninhabited since the two of them had shared it, no doubt.

"Alright, so," Blomkvist said, dropping his suitcase beside an adjoining door. "I'll take this room. You can go wherever you like, of course."

Salander nodded, eyes still on the window. She could see Blomkvist's reflection in the glass. He watched her for a moment, then disappeared into his bedroom. Salander stood stalk-still and listened to the wind howl. A boat crossed the lake, spotlight reflected dramatically in the black water.

"Lisbeth."

"Hm?"

Salander turned around to see Blomkvist standing in the doorway, looking confused.

"Is this yours?" he asked. He held out a red glove.

"No." Salander shook her head.

Blomkvist frowned and looked down at the glove, curiously. "I've never seen it before," he said. He held it up to the light, and then, just like that, something square and white tumbled out onto the floor.

Salander stooped down to pick it up.

"A playing card?" Blomkvist asked.

Salander gazed at the rough card stock. Queen of Hearts. She handed the card to Blomkvist.

"Must have grabbed it on accident at Pernilla's," Blomkvist said, though he didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe on the train…" He turned around and headed for his room.

"Wait," Salander said.

Blomkvist raised his eyebrows, expectantly.

"Can I see the card?"

"Sure." He handed it to her.

Salander took the card in her hand, and turned it over so she could see the Queen.

"What is it?" Blomkvist asked, stepping closer.

"Probably nothing," Salander said. "Just something weird."

"Something weird?"

"Look," Salander said. She pointed at the white lining on the edge of the card. A series of faint markings could be seen, as if someone had been writing on a piece of paper, on top of the card.

"What am I looking at?" Blomkvist asked.

"Look closely," Salander said. She ran her finger over the edge of the card. "Whoever owned this thing was writing something."

"Clearly."

Salander looked up at Blomkvist. "In Morse code," she finished. "Again, it's probably nothing."

"Well, now you have me curious," Blomkvist said, following Salander into the kitchen. Salander opened a cabinet, and found a can of soup. She took it gladly and cracked open the lid.

Blomkvist was still examining the card. "This is going to drive me crazy now…" he said, scratching his chin.

Salander put the soup in the microwave. "Of course it will," she said, crossing her arms.

Blomkvist looked up. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, amused.

Salander gave him a half-smile just as the microwave went off. She took her soup and walked out of the kitchen.

"Good night, Mikael," she said.

Inside her room, Salander pulled out her laptop. She checked Hacker Republic only to find she had no new messages. Then she finished her late dinner, undressed, showered, and finally crawled into bed, letting the exhaustion of the day wash over her.

Only then was she struck by the sheer absurdity of the situation. Mikael Blomkvist was just on the other side of her bedroom wall. Even after all this time, it still felt strange to be so close to him, and _not _have him crawl into bed next to her. Salander lay in the dark for a long time, brooding over this particular train of thought.

In the end, Salander realized that even though they found themselves back in Hedestad— back where everything began— things had changed. Things had changed radically.

Salander found herself wishing that she had kept that damn playing card instead of giving it back to Mikael before bed. It would be nice to puzzle over that mystery instead of agonizing over this bizarre day.


	6. The Spark

**Sorry for the delay posting this chapter. I was a little busy over New Year's but now I am back! Thank you all for all the favorites and especially the reviews! I know I've said this before, but I'll say it again; they really do motivate me to write. So thank you! Hope you enjoy. : ) **

**~TruthIsOutThere **

Blomkvist awoke to the sound of scratching. He opened his eyes slowly, alarmed by how bright the room was. He had fallen asleep with the windows open, he realized. Compared to his softly lit apartment in Bellmansgatan, this place was blinding.

Blomkvist got to his feet, stretching. He felt stiff and exhausted, like he hadn't slept long enough. The clock on his bedside table said seven 'o' clock.

_No wonder, _Blomkvist thought, shuffling over to the window and pulling the curtains closed. Only then did the scratching sound catch his attention again.

Blomkvist turned around swiftly to see a small dog standing beside his bedroom door. He nearly jumped in surprise. Had Henrik owned a dog? He couldn't remember, but he didn't think so.

Blomkvist grabbed his jacket from beside the bed, and walked over to the door. He pushed it open gently, and watched the little dog scamper out into the sitting room.

Blomkvist gazed at his surroundings. What he saw before him took him by surprise. Salander lay on the couch with her back facing him— a surprisingly sedentary position for her. She flipped through the channels, lazily, looking utterly… _normal. _

Blomkvist stared on, slightly bewildered. In all the time he'd known her, he couldn't ever recall seeing Salander so… _casual. _She was always immersed in something. A project. A strategy. A way around a prison sentence. She made this seem strange by comparison.

"Morning," Blomkvist said, finally. He walked over to the kitchen. "Is there any coffee?"

Evoking no response, Blomkvist looked up to find the person lying on the couch was not Salander at all, but a girl, no older than fourteen. The girl stared at him, wordlessly, her eyes wide as saucers. She looked just as startled as Blomkvist felt. Her mouth hung agape. Her jaw quivered. She looked as if she were on the verge of explaining herself, but all she could muster up was an embarrassed, "Sorry." Then she reached down, scooped up the small dog sitting beside the couch, and fled the room, without turning the television off.

Blomkvist stood motionless for several moments, trying to work out what just happened. He could recall Frode mentioning something about other guests coming to stay at the Vanger Estate, but Blomkvist couldn't imagine anyone would make it here so _early. _Besides, hadn't Frode also mentioned that the other guests would have their own wing of the house?

Blomkvist heard voices out in the hallway. He stepped closer to the door, listening intently.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you he was staying here. It completely slipped my mind."

"It's fine, it's fine," the girl's voice replied.

"If you'd like, you can stay in the west wing until the guests arrive. Then we can find somewhere more suitable for you to go."

"I'll just go home."

"You could go to Harriet's. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

"Maybe," the girl said.

"Do come to dinner tonight, won't you?"

"Will anyone want me there?"

"Henrik would have."

"I don't know Henrik."

"But he would have liked to help you. I'm sure of it."

Blomkvist heard the sound of footsteps fading down the hallway. He frowned, then winced at the sound of a door slamming.

A moment later, someone knocked.

Blomkvist opened the door to find Dirch Frode standing in the hall, looking distraught.

"I'm sorry to bother you so early," Frode said.

"I'm surprised you're awake," Blomkvist remarked.

"I've been helping Cecilia with funeral arrangements," Frode explained.

"Ah."

"Mind if I come in?"

"Be my guest." Blomkvist stepped aside to let the old man into the sitting room. "I'm sorry I can't offer you any coffee. It's not done yet."

Frode waved him off. "Don't worry yourself. I'm only here because I heard you ran into Nadia."

Blomkvist nodded, and put some coffee on. "Yeah, yeah. She was here watching television here when I woke up."

Frode nodded. "Nadia spends a considerable amount of time up here these days," he explained. "It seems I neglected to tell her about your stay."

Blomkvist frowned. "It's no trouble," he said. "But if you don't mind my asking; who _is_ Nadia, exactly?"

Frode let out a sigh of resignation. He took a seat on the couch.

"Nadia is Isabella Vanger's grand niece," he began. "I take it you haven't forgotten Isabella?"

Blomkvist shook his head. "She's not particularly forgettable," he admitted.

"Or particularly agreeable," Frode added.

Blomkvist raised his eyebrows. "I'm glad I'm not alone in thinking that."

"You most certainly are not," Frode said, with a huff. "As I'm sure you know, Isabella has never been among the more preferable Vanger's— if you consider any of them preferable, that is. Lately, her reputation seems to have deteriorated even further, if you can believe that."

"Because of Harriet's return?" Blomkvist asked. He wasn't sure if the truth surrounding Harriet's disappearance had even been fully disclosed to her family, but if it had, Blomkvist wouldn't be surprised to see someone like Isabella completely ostracized for her participation— or _lack thereof—_ in the entire ordeal. Then again, Blomkvist _also _wouldn't have been surprised to hear the family had simply turned the other cheek. It was hard to tell with the Vangers, as they were, indeed, a generally loathsome and unpredictable bunch.

Frode shook his head. "No. Isabella's recent unpopularity actually has nothing to do with her daughter," he said. "It's all about Nadia."

Blomkvist nodded. "Why is she here?" Blomkvist asked. "Nadia, I mean." He noticed the coffee was ready, and poured two cups, offering one to Frode and making sure to save some for Lisbeth, whenever she woke up.

Frode decline the coffee, holding out his hands. "My heart," he said, patting his chest lightly. "I've been advised by my doctor to stay away from caffeine."

"That sounds difficult," Blomkvist said.

"It is," Frode chuckled. "It's made winter all the more unbearable." He shook his head. "Anyway, Nadia."

Blomkvist took a sip of coffee and nodded. "Nadia," he confirmed.

Frode cleared his throat, and sat forward. "I should preface this story by telling you; it's not particularly pleasant."

Blomkvist nodded. "Well, I've heard plenty of unpleasant stories in Hedeby."

Frode raised his eyebrows. "Yes, indeed, you have," he breathed. "You can take comfort in knowing this one doesn't include any aggravation or torture by the hand of a Vanger."

_Well, this certainly_ is_ new, _Blomkvist thought, though he didn't say it aloud. He only nodded and let Frode to continue.

"Nadia and her older brother, Julien, are the only grandchildren of Isabella's recently-deceased sister, Anna," Frode began. "Anna married young. She was probably no more than seventeen at the time. Her husband, a man called Lars Amundsen, lived in Kristiansand, so they settled there. Isabella stopped speaking to her sister during this time. The circumstances surrounding their falling out remain a mystery, but I'm sure it had something to do with Isabella's all-around disagreeable personality."

Blomkvist nodded.

"Anyway," Frode sighed. "Shortly after moving to Norway, Lars and Anna had their son, Magnus. Unfortunately, one morning Magnus woke up with a cough. Forty-eight hours later, he was dead. Bacterial meningitis. Quick killer. It devastated the family."

"I can imagine," Blomkvist said.

"Yes. It was quite traumatic," Frode agreed. "It was several years before Lars and Anna had their second child. A girl called Sofia. During this time that Anna and Isabella patched up their relationship. For a couple of years, Anna would send Sofia to Hedestad for a few weeks during the summer. I've never met a child more spoiled and pampered by her mother. She had every possible material possession under the sun. But she was never conceited. No. Sofia was always a very pleasant, good-natured child. Everyone liked having her around. Henrik always kept a close eye on her, as she was staying with Isabella, who he never trusted. But even while she lived with that vial woman, Sofia always seemed remarkably well-adjusted."

Blomkvist frowned. "I don't remember hearing about any of this when I was writing Henrik's memoir."

Frode looked out the window at the lake, already bustling with people out fishing and sailing for the day. "No," he sighed. "You wouldn't have. This was all after Harriet's disappearance. And like I said, it was only for a few summers."

Blomkvist nodded slowly.

"Eventually Isabella and Anna had another falling out. Sofia went back to Norway in August of 1984, and we never saw her again after that."

Blomkvist nodded.

"Anna's facet of the family completely isolated themselves after that. Isabella refused to speak of her sister, brother-in-law, or niece. She pretended they didn't exist, and eventually we were all forced to do the same."

Another nod from Blomkvist.

"Anyway, about three years ago, Isabella learned her sister had died of a stroke. She was seventy-eight years old. She had a long life. Of course, Isabella never spoke of this. Partially because she was still pretending her sister didn't exist, and partially because she was pretending no one else on the island existed, either!" Frode chuckled. Then his face became somber. "Ah. Then about two months ago, Isabella got a call she couldn't ignore. Sofia and her husband were killed in a shooting at a supermarket in West Kristiansand. Nadia's older brother Julien, and his partner, a man called Nordhamm, tried to obtain legal custody of the girl, but both men work as artists, and make a very yearly income. The state ruled that it would be best for Nadia to live with her next closest relative."

"Isabella?" Blomkvist guessed.

"Exactly." Frode gave a sad-looking nod. "It seems poor Nadia is not as quick to adapt as her mother was. And who can blame her? She's been in a state of utter turmoil since her parents were killed, and now living with Isabella…" Frode shook his head. "I'm afraid she's very troubled. She wants nothing more than to return to Norway with her brother. Until then I'm afraid she'll be stuck in Hedeby. The poor girl is scared senseless by Isabella. She spends all her time here, hiding away." Frode glanced around the room, forlornly.

"Well, I certainly don't mind if she hangs around our sitting room," Blomkvist shrugged. "I don't imagine I'll be here very often. I'll probably spend most of my time working, either in my room, or at the café. I don't know about Lisbeth. I assume she'll find some way to keep herself busy. We'll make ourselves scarce."

"Oh, that won't be necessary. I think you'll find that Nadia is shy to the point of paralysis in front of others. Her parent's death had a jarring effect on her— more so than on her brother. Nadia is afraid of everything, and everyone. It's quite tragic, really."

"Sounds tragic," Blomkvist concurred. "Let me know if there's anything I can do."

Frode got to his feet. "You're a good man, Blomkvist," he said. "I learned the hard way; it's best not to get involved with Vanger familial problems."

"And yet, here I am," Blomkvist said.

"And yet, here you are," Frode repeated. "I'll show myself out. Have a nice day, Herr Blomkvist. We're all reconvening for dinner at six. I hope to see you and Froken Salander there."

"Of course," Blomkvist said, taking another sip of coffee.

Frode disappeared out the door.

Salander woke around noon, feeling oddly content, though she wasn't sure why. She got up quickly, showered, and paced out into the sitting room, where she found Blomkvist frantically typing something up on his computer.

_That's it, _she realized, in a jarring moment of clarity. How had she not noticed it before? Her complacency wasn't some random occurrence. It was some strange sound association, brought on by the Mikael's typing. Salander recalled a similar feeling during their stay in Sandhamn together.

Blomkvist looked up from his computer screen.

"Good morning," he said. "There's coffee in the kitchen. You'll have to heat it up, though. I'm sure it's gone cold by now."

Salander nodded once, then moved wordlessly into the next room.

"I picked up bagels," Blomkvist called, from the other room. "They're on top of the fridge. I couldn't remember what kind you liked, so I got a couple different ones."

Salander retrieved the paper bag from on top of the refrigerator, and analyzed the contents, finally selecting the vegetarian bagel for the sake of variety. She heated up some coffee and ate in silence, sitting on the kitchen counter.

For some reason, she couldn't bring herself to eat breakfast in the sitting room with Blomkvist. It all felt too strange to her, like she was reenacting a thing of the past. Salander chewed her bagel, gazing thoughtfully out the window at the lake. After a few minutes, she lit a cigarette and tried to figure out how best to spend her time in Hedestad. She couldn't avoid him forever… And did she want to?

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Blomkvist said, abruptly. He walked into the kitchen and took a cigarette from his own pack. "Dirch Frode has invited us both to dinner with the Vangers this evening."

"I don't want to eat dinner with the fucking Vangers," Salander said, bluntly. She finished her bagel and wiped her fingertips on her jeans.

"Believe me. I agree," Blomkvist said. "Frankly, I'd like to avoid the Vangers at all costs, but this is all a part of Henrik's funeral. I think it's important that we attend."

"So attend," Salander shrugged. "I'm not going. I've already spent enough of my life around slimes and sadists. I'm done with them."

"Fair enough," Blomkvist said. He poured the last bit of coffee for himself, and sipped it, wincing at the temperature.

"I'm going to the store in twenty minutes to buy some actual food," Blomkvist declared, wandering off to locate his shoes. "If you'd like to come, you can. It's a bit warmer today. I think it'll be nice to get out of the house for a while."

Salander stared at him, apprehensively. She was torn. A part of her wanted nothing more than to go with him. To fall back into a routine with him. Maybe not the same routine they'd once had, but a routine nonetheless. Another part of her— arguably the more sensible part— fought his hold on her, vehemently.

She hopped off the counter.

_Time to make a choice, Salander._

Frowning, Salander wondered if one walk would really hurt her. She viewed this concept as a kind of personal challenge. One walk with Kalle Fucking Blomkvist. Could she take it? Of course she could. Salander reached for her jacket, and walked out the door, waiting for him to follow her.

Moments later, he did just that. Together, they walked wordlessly down the staircase and out the front door. Blomkvist stopped only once to make casual small talk with Anna, the housekeeper. Salander waited impatiently nearby. When he was finished, they set out together on the snowy trek to the supermarket.

"The strangest thing happened to me this morning," Blomkvist said, breaking the silence.

Salander looked up at him— her way of encouraging him to continue.

"I woke up this morning, and there was a dog in my room."

"The Vangers don't have any dogs," Salander reminded him.

"Oh, they do now," Blomkvist said. "There's a girl living with Isabella Vanger. The dog belongs to her."

"A girl?" Salander asked, curiously.

"Her grand-niece. She's only fourteen. Her parents were killed in a shooting, so she's been sent here."

_Unfortunate, _Salander thought to herself.

"Anyway, I went to let the dog out and I found the girl sitting on our couch."

Salander gave him an inquisitive look.

"She ran out after that. Poor thing. She was mortified. Frode showed up shortly after that and explained that she stays at the Vanger estate during the day to avoid Isabella. He forgot to tell her we were coming."

Salander nodded.

"Oh wow." Blomkvist held out an arm, causing Salander to stop short. She glared at him. "There she is right now."

Salander followed his gaze across the street. Sure enough, a young girl sat alone on the snowy steps outside Isabella Vanger's house, resting her chin in her hands.

"The glove," Salander said, abruptly.

"What?" Blomkvist asked.

"She only has one glove. Look."

Blomkvist frowned.

"How did you notice that?" he asked.

Salander shrugged.

Blomkvist reached into his pocket and retrieved the red glove from the night before. He held it out to Salander who examined it quickly and then nodded. It was the same glove. It belonged to the girl.

Blomkvist set out across the street.

Salander rested her back against a telephone pole and looked the other way. Hidden, but still able to overhear their conversation.

"Hello. Nadia, right?"

Silence.

"Is this yours?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"I must have… I don't know, stepped on it or something. Or maybe you left it at Henrik's."

Silence.

"Well, I suppose I'll see you at dinner."

No response.

Blomkvist crossed the street.

"She rivals only you for best conversationalist," he said, with a tiny laugh.

Salander frowned.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you—"

"— I'm not offended, I'm thinking," Salander said.

Blomkvist nodded, and carried on in silence.

When they arrived at the supermarket, Salander reached out and grabbed Blomkvist's shoulder, stopping him just outside of the door. He stared at her, surprised.

"The card must have been her's, too," Salander explained.

"Who's?"

"Nadia's."

"Right," Blomkvist breathed. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the card, holding it out to Salander. "Any chance you know Morse code?"

Salander nodded. "I already looked," she said. "What's written makes no sense."

"What do you mean?"

Salander shrugged. "It's just three letters," she explained. "C-F-D. It's in code or something. Or it was cut off."

Blomkvist frowned. "It's probably nothing," he said, again.

"Probably," Salander said, though she wasn't convinced. She turned the card over in her hand, then put it in her pocket.

Blomkvist only watched her. "I take it you're not planning to return that to Nadia, then?"

"Not right away. No."

Salander stepped wordlessly into the store. She collected groceries quickly— her usual junk food and Billy's Pan Pizza— then spent the walk home silently brooding over the code on the card. It seemed so painfully simple. Like child's play. But for some reason she found it hard to crack.

Of course, it was possible the code was incomplete. After all, it didn't look like it was meant to find it's way onto the card in the first place. Still, it bothered her. Salander had trouble leaving things unresolved. Especially things that interested her.

For some reason, this silly card had caught her attention. She was stuck trying to work it out.

Back at the Vanger Estate, Blomkvist and Salander had a quiet lunch together, then parted ways once again. Blomkvist returned to his work, typing up an article on a child-labor conspiracy surrounding a popular construction company in Uppsala. Salander retreated to her bedroom and resumed trying to break down the code on Nadia's card. After twenty minutes, she decided her effort was useless. Even if these letters meant something, it was clear the message was incomplete. She cast the card aside for the time being, and ventured back outdoors to try and figure out how Nadia's glove ended up amongst Blomkvist's possessions in the first place. Finding nothing concrete, she decided to return to her room. It was then that something peculiar happened.

Salander walked through the door adjoining the kitchen and the estate's side-yard. It was here that she ran into Anna, Henrik's housekeeper. The woman stood hunched over the stove, her head bowed as she wept quietly to herself. If she noticed Salander entering the room, she didn't show it. She put a hand to her face and sniffed, turning towards the doors.

"Oh!" Anna jumped, looking startled. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were…"

"It's fine," Salander said. She attempted to leave the room, quickly, but Anna reached out and took her arm. Salander stood frozen, unsure of how to proceed. She stared uncomfortably at the door.

"Please don't tell anyone I'm such a wreck," Anna begged. "I desperately need to keep my position here, and the Vangers are ruthless, merciless people with very little tolerance for grief. If they think I'm mourning, and not working…" Anna took a deep breath. "Well, I'm sure several of them wouldn't hesitate to have me fired."

Salander stared at her. She shook her head. "It's none of my business," she said. "I'm not going to tell."

"Oh, thank you," Anna breathed, wiping her eyes on the back of her shirtsleeve. "I'm not usually like this." She sniffed. "I worked for Henrik Vanger for more than fifty years! Can you believe that? During my time here, I came to respect him immensely. He was a good man. A good _friend." _Another sniff. "In a way, I always assumed I'd outlive him. The last few months were impossible." She shook her head. "The poor man's health deteriorated more quickly than anyone anticipated. He spent his final days up in his office. Staring out of an old telescope, and muttering about playing cards…"

Lisbeth's head snapped up. "Playing cards?" she asked.

"Yes, yes," Anna said. "Henrik had hundreds of them, though I'm not sure where they came from. He would lay them all out on his desk, rambling on and on about codes, and mysteries. It seems all the time he spent dwelling on Harriet's disappearance took its toll on him in the end. He spent his last few weeks swept up in some… imaginary investigation." Anna waved her hand, dismissively. "Anyway," she said. "It was all very sad to watch. I can only hope Henrik now finds himself in a better place. Preferably one less troublesome and problematic for him. The poor old man could have benefitted from some peace of mind."

Lisbeth nodded, quickly, her mind working a million miles a minute.

"What time is dinner tonight?" she asked, finally.

"Six 'o' clock," Anna said. "It's actually good that you're here, because I forgot to ask whether you and Herr Blomkvist will be eating off the vegetarian, or the regular menu."

Salander shook her head slightly. "Umm… regular," she muttered. Then she turned and left the room in a hurry. She hoped Henrik Vanger's study was unlocked. She didn't want to waste time breaking in.


	7. The Flame

**Sorry again for the delay. Thankfully, I think I've got my schedule back on track, and I should be updating more frequently in weeks to come. It should be noted that this chapter was written over a week's time. I did my best to clear up any inconsistencies, but if you notice something that seems a little off… just bare in mind that I probably didn't do that on purpose. **

**Thank you all for your fantastic reviews! They're honestly, very motivational. So thanks!**

**~TruthIsOutThere**

Blomkvist didn't see Salander again until just before dinner. Only then did she choose to reappear, making a beeline for her laptop, an intriguingly determined look on her face.

"Where have you been?" Blomkvist asked, for the sake of conversation. He knew not to expect much in the way of a response.

Salander raised her eyes from her laptop screen, setting her gaze on Blomkvist. There was something peculiar about the way she looked at him. If Blomkvist didn't know any better, he would have thought she was conflicted. But no. Salander was an extraordinarily decisive person. Surely that wasn't it.

"Before his death, Henrik Vanger purchased a very expensive telescope," she said, before adding, "It's in his office. You can go and see."

Blomkvist frowned, wondering if she would elaborate. She looked up at him again, gauged his blank expression and said, "I want to know why he bought it." This was more of an explanation than she usually offered.

"I don't understand…" Blomkvist said, walking over to stand beside her. "Is this relevant somehow…?"

Salander stood up abruptly. "The card," she said, carrying her laptop to her bedroom. "It's all connected."

Blomkvist frowned, at a loss for words. "Lisbeth… where are you going with this?" He followed her into her room. She glared at him.

"It's complicated," she said, her tone surprisingly hostile.

_She must want to be alone, _Blomkvist thought, pulling the door closed. He stopped himself just beyond the threshold.

"Oh, Lisbeth?" he asked, leaning his head against the doorframe.

No response.

"I meant to ask you; are you coming to dinner or not? I have to tell Anna."

There was a brief silence, then a muffled, "No."

"Okay. Thanks."

Blomkvist sighed, and returned to his computer. He had hoped to finish his article before dinner, but it seemed he was ravaged by writer's block once again. He groaned and leaned back on the couch, ever-frustrated with his inability to write since Monica left.

Blomkvist closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. That's when the noise caught his attention.

Blomkvist's head snapped up. He gazed down at his computer screen. _A new email?_ He sighed, dreading what it would inevitably say. His article was due three days ago.

_Would he ever write again?_

Blomkvist clicked on the e-mail icon, and found— much to his surprise— absolutely _nothing _in his _Millennium _inbox. He quickly switched over to his personal account, and found a message waiting.

To: 

From: _.com_

_Hello Mikael. It's Tish Solovyov (Pernilla's roommate.) I know I just met you the other day, and this entire email is probably a bit strange, but I tried calling earlier and received no response. _

_I don't know if Nilla ever mentioned it, but I'm a journalism major at Umeå University (Although due to some recent personal and financial problems, I won't be able to resume my studies until next Fall.) Anyway, your daughter has been bugging me with speak to you for quite some time. She seems to think your guidance might be useful to me. I'll admit I am reluctant— I don't usually take advice when it comes to work or writing— but after meeting you the other day, I must say I am intrigued. I went out and purchased the latest edition of Millennium straight away (was sad to see none of your articles included!) and found it a highly satisfying read. This is surprising coming from me, as I am not usually a finance reader. _

_Anyway, I spoke to Nilla about it last night, and she said I should call you straight away (which I tried to do. You didn't answer) and ask if you'd be willing to discuss with me some questions I have regarding the profession ahead. I know you're staying in Hedestad for the time being, and conveniently enough I am planning to be in the area as well. I'm leaving tomorrow to visit my grandparents in Litenstad, which, I believe, is only about fifteen minutes away from Hedeby. I could certainly make the trek up to the island if you'd consider meeting me for coffee sometime. All business, of course. I think your daughter might kill me, otherwise._

_Talk to you soon. _

_xx,_

_-Tish _

Blomkvist quickly typed up a response, saying; yes, of course he would meet Tish for coffee. He tried not to think too much of it, reminding himself that Tish was both younger than even Lisbeth, and also his daughter's roommate. He hoped there were no implications hidden in the message, but even if there were, Blomkvist promised himself he wouldn't get involved.

Glancing over at the clock, Blomkvist hit 'send', closed his laptop, and left to change into something nicer to wear to dinner. As he passed her door, he heard the sound of vigorous typing coming from Salander's bedroom, which triggered the spread of a tiny grin. He dressed quickly, and decided to stop at Susanne's after dinner and pick up something decent for Salander to eat.

Blomkvist was never sure what brought on the compulsory urge to be particularly friendly towards Salander, but the compulsory urge was there, nonetheless. There was just something about being in her presence that clicked with him. Blomkvist didn't believe in fate, but at times, it felt as if the two of them were somehow _meant _to be allies, if nothing more.

Of course, he was smart enough to keep these notions to himself.

Blomkvist considered this idea on his way downstairs.

It was funny how quickly everything had changed since meeting Salander. Maybe it was purely coincidence, but it seemed as though the moment she entered his life, it changed completely.

It began in Hedestad, of course. The search for Harriet Vanger was nothing short of a life-changing experience for everyone involved. Blomkvist was nearly killed during that first trip. Facing one's mortality was never a pleasant experience, especially at the hand of a sadistic bastard like Martin Vanger.

Blomkvist still remembered the pitiless look on Martin's face just seconds before he intended to kill him.

Blomkvist also remembered the way that cruel face crumpled when Lisbeth slammed a golf club into the back of his head.

She saved his life that night.

Saved him. Changed him. Won his endless devotion.

Blomkvist spent the next several years of his life fighting for Lisbeth Salander whenever he had the chance. Even when her behavior was impossible— infuriating— he did everything in his power to prove the injustices carried out against her, and ultimately clear her name. In the end, he was a changed man. There was no denying that. The old Mikael Blomkvist was gone; replaced by someone slightly more wary, slightly more guarded, and infinitely more perseverant.

It was perseverance got him through Lisbeth's trail. Now it was perseverance that kept him working through his writer's block. He had Lisbeth to thank for all of this.

There were several months of silence after the verdict, in which Blomkvist was convinced that his relationship with Salander had finally drawn to a close. It bothered him immensely every time he thought about it. He couldn't figure out what he did, or what he said, to make her so angry with him. He just couldn't come to terms with the fact that Salander could leave so easily, after changing him so completely. The idea that she would ever_ want_ to leave Sweden after such a fantastic victory was baffling to him. Then again, Lisbeth Salander was a baffling woman. That was one of the reasons he was drawn to her. Their relationship had always been complicated; they understood each other on only the most basic level, and spent the rest of their time trying desperately to wrap their heads around the more complex aspects of one another. At least, that was how Blomkvist felt, most of the time.

Being around Lisbeth was _interesting, _to say the least. Blomkvist was convinced her sudden disappearance had contributed to his writer's block. He was so distracted, for so long…

Now they were back here together, in Hedestad. It felt so strange— so bizarre— but also comforting in an unusual sort of way.

At this point Blomkvist was so lost in thought he nearly ran right into Anna, who was just leaving Henrik's now-desolate office space. There was a distraught look on her face.

"Herr Blomkvist," she said, catching him by surprise.

"Anna. Hi."

Anna's eyes were wide with terror.

"Something the matter?" he asked.

"Have you been in Henrik's office?" Anna asked. Her voice shook slightly. Blomkvist noticed her face looked rosy and swollen, as if she'd been crying recently.

"No…" Blomkvist craned his neck to see around Anna, into the empty office. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Where is Froken Salander?" Anna asked.

"I— In our quarters. Why? Is she in some kind of trouble?" Blomkvist wondered if he should have given away her location so quickly.

"No. No," Anna shook her head. "I'm being paranoid." She looked up at Blomkvist. "Between the two of us… she isn't a thief, is she?"

Blomkvist stared at her, abashed.

"Oh goodness, it's not my intention to accuse anyone of anything," Anna said, hurriedly. "I'm sorry if I've offended you or—"

Blomkvist shook his head. "No, no. Of course now. Lisbeth is no thief," he said. He hoped this was the truth, though in all honesty, he wouldn't put it past Salander to take something if she absolutely needed it.

_But what did she absolutely need? _he wondered.

Blomkvist frowned. "Is something stolen?" he asked.

Anna wrung her hands. "No, no. Of course not. It's just—"

"— It's just what?"

Anna looked conflicted. "Well, I left the door unlocked, and now something's been moved."

"So something _is _missing?" Blomkvist said.

"No." Anna chewed on her lip, nervously. "Herr Blomkvist, you were the one who found Harriet, weren't you?"

"Well, Lisbeth and I found her together, but; yes. Yes we did."

"So, I assume you're quite talented when it comes to… investigation?" Anna asked, slowly.

Blomkvist frowned. "Anna, if something's been stolen—"

"— No, no," Anna sighed. "Herr Blomkvist, do follow me."

Blomkvist glanced around the empty corridor.

"Alright," he said, following Anna into Henrik's office.

The place looked almost exactly as if had four years before. Few things had been added. A picture of Harriet at her first Vanger Industries board meeting now sat on the desk, a new, framed flower hung on the wall, and an elaborate-looking telescope in the window. Otherwise, the place looked as if it hadn't been touched in ages.

Blomkvist's eyes widened slightly as he recalled something Salander had mentioned earlier.

_The telescope. _

He frowned, examining it more closely.

"Anna, was Henrik interested in astrology?" he asked, as casually as possible.

"I had a feeling you would ask that," Anna said, her tone unusually grave. "You see, in his final months Henrik became sort of…" She looked like she was struggling to find the right word.

"Disjointed?" Blomkvist offered.

"Yes, yes. _Disjointed," _Anna agreed, with a hearty nod. "He developed a few strange hobbies. He was suddenly intrigued by stars, and playing cards."

Blomkvist shrugged. "Well, I'm sure that's not uncommon."

"No, I'm sure it's not," Anna agreed. "What was unusual was the way he started acting shortly after these obsessions set in."

"Well, he was an old man," Blomkvist offered. "Surely, he was _bound _to have some eccentricities—"

"— This wasn't a part of the normal aging process, Herr Blomkvist," Anna said. "Henrik had his moments, but for the most part he was entirely coherent, right up until his death."

Blomkvist frowned. _This _certainly contradicted much of what he had been told.

He must have looked curious, because Anna carried on without being prompted.

"Henrik began to believe he was receiving messages," she explained, running her hand along the base of the telescope.

"What? From aliens or something?" Blomkvist laughed, only half-joking. In his field of work, he had interviewed men— respectable men— with far stranger beliefs.

"No," Anna said, with the faintest of smiles. "No. Herr Blomkvist, come look at this." She motioned for him to join her behind Henrik's desk. She fiddled with a drawer, finally managing to wrench it half-open."

"What the hell?" Blomkvist asked. The drawer was full to bursting with normal, standard playing cards.

"Henrik's final obsession," Anna said, picking one up and admiring it. The Queen of Spades. "He has more, too, but they're all in storage."

"Where did he get these?" Blomkvist asked, perplexed.

"They came in the mail," Anna said.

"And you never found that suspicious?"

"Not particularly," Anna said, eyeing Blomkvist as if she suspected he may have some kind of explanation for the strange behavior he was describing. "Henrik could have ordered them, after all," she continued. "He did that from time to time. You'd never know it just from speaking to him casually, but Henrik was fairly savvy when it came to technology. It always interested him. He knew his way around the internet."

Blomkvist raised his eyebrows and turned back to the playing cards. "No, I wouldn't have guessed," he admitted.

Anna sighed. "Anyway," she said, abruptly pushing the drawer closed. "As I was saying, what is_ truly_ peculiar about this whole ordeal is the way Henrik connected all of this."

"All of… what?" Blomkvist asked. "Forgive me for saying so, but to me, this just looks to me like an old man's _hobbies."_

"Ah, that _is_ how it looks, isn't it?" Anna said, with a tiny smile. "Sadly, it's not that simple. Before he died, Henrik took up a kind of… rambling…" Anna closed her eyes, as if the memory was physically painful for her to recall.

"That's not abnormal, either," Blomkvist reasoned. "Old men ramble. It's practically written into their nature."

"You didn't hear him," Anna said, hurriedly. "The way he went on, and on about these cards. And the telescope!" Anna hurried over to the telescope in the window. "He was always looking at something, Herr Blomkvist. Sometimes I'd walk in here and he would be sitting in his chair, just… _gazing _out through the telescope in broad daylight. I tried to see what he was looking at but there was never anything there!"

"It could have been anything," Blomkvist pointed out.

"Exactly. It _could _have been anything. But it wasn't." She shook her head. "Herr Blomkvist, I know for a fact that Henrik was looking at something _specific. _He _saw_ something— something connected to those cards!" She motioned wildly at the desk.

Blomkvist gazed at her, critically. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because," Anna whispered, a hint of desperation in her voice. "There's no other explanation."

Blomkvist sighed, and gave a tiny frown. "Why are you telling me all of this, Anna?" he asked, out of sheer curiosity.

"You solved the case with Harriet," she reminded him. "That case was closed for forty years."

"Yes…"

"I need your help," Anna said. "Just while you're in town. If there's any way you could…" She trailed off, looking out the window at the snow.

Blomkvist waited for her to finish.

Anna cleared her throat, regaining her composure. "If there's any way you could… help me find some kind of closure." She looked up and met his eyes. "Henrik was an old friend of mine. I need to know what he was looking for— what he was talking about. I believe he was trying to tell me something."

Blomkvist frowned. "You're asking me to validate the ramblings of an old man?" he asked, baffled. "Anna, Henrik was very ill. He said a lot of things. Most of them probably had no real—"

"— I'm not asking you to validate anything," Anna said. "I'm asking you to _look. _Just look. Try to understand. I _know _Henrik. I know he wasn't crazy. He knew something! With these cards, and that telescope… He was on the cusp of discovering something big!"

"But what?" Blomkvist asked.

"That's what I need you to figure out," Anna said, her voice pleading. _"Please_. This keeps me up at night. I've done everything I can but…" She shook her head. "Whatever he was doing… Well, I get the impression it meant a great deal to him. It's hard for me to let this go without at least properly trying to figure it out."

"Why don't you go to someone else?" Blomkvist offered. "I mean, I haven't seen Henrik in years. Maybe you should talk to Harriet or—"

"— I can't risk it," Anna said, abruptly. "I can't risk my job here. I'm afraid if I bring up Henrik, it will upset the others and then…" She shook her head, then turned her attention back to Blomkvist. "I'm not asking you to solve this completely, Herr Blomkvist. Actually, I'm not asking you to _solve _this at all. I just want to know whatever you figure out. You're a talented researcher." She patted his shoulder. "I came to you because I knew if anyone could solve this, it would be you. You and Fröken Salander."

Blomkvist tried to imagine asking Lisbeth to join him in this endeavor. Every imaginary scenario he thought up of ended horrendously, in one way or another. They could hardly speak to each other right now, let alone solve the mystery of Henrik Vanger's last days together. Blomkvist nearly laughed aloud at the thought.

Then he remembered Salander, hauled up in her bedroom. _Researching what?_ Blomkvist frowned. Was it possible Salander was working on this exact same case?

_Yes, _he realized. It was entirely possible. Not just that, it was _likely. _

Salander was always one step ahead. That was the way it worked.

Blomkvist snapped to attention.

"You said something was moved," he reminded her.

"Right. The telescope," Anna said. She reached back into Henrik's desk and retrieved a large piece of paper. "The day Henrik died, I noted the exact coordinates he had programmed into hid telescope. I was hoping to figure out what he was looking at, but it was also a convenient way of making sure no one came snooping around Henrik's office while I was away." Anna sighed. "I'm afraid you can't put it past the Vangers to spy on their deceased." She looked at Blomkvist with nervous eyes. "That's not to be repeated, of course."

"Of course," Blomkvist agreed.

"Anyway," Anna continued. "You put a huge telescope in the center of the room, and people are bound to touch it. I came in here every night to check the coordinates, and found nothing. The room was clean. No one came around trying to steal or snoop." She almost smiled, then her face went grave. "Today, the telescope shifted three degrees west."

"Honestly," Blomkvist reasoned. "It could have been the _wind_."

"Do you feel any wind?" Anna asked. The room was completely still and quiet.

Blomkvist shrugged. He couldn't really argue with that.

"No one is supposed to be in here," she explained. "I talked to Froken Salander about this place earlier this morning, so I thought maybe—"

"— Wait a second, you talked to _Lisbeth _about all of this?" Blomkvist asked.

"Well, not all of it," Anna explained. "I simply told her about the telescope and the cards. She seemed interested."

Blomkvist nodded. "I bet she was…" He shook his head, slightly, then turned back to Anna. "I'll tell you what," he began. "If Lisbeth agrees to work with me, I'll give it my best shot. I can't promise you anything, but I'll do what I can."

Anna looked close to tears. "Bless you…" She whispered quietly. "You're a good, good man, Herr Blomkvist."

"I can't make any promises," he reiterated.

Anna nodded. "I understand," she said. "All I'm asking is that you _try."_

"Of course."

Anna smiled, weakly, despite her welling tears. "Well," she breathed, glancing at the clock in the corner. "I've got to go finish dinner. See you at six then?"

"See you at six."

Blomkvist opened the door to find Harriet Vanger heading down the hallway. She jumped.

"Oh, sorry," Harriet said, quickly. "You startled me." She still looked shocked. Then realizing where Blomkvist was coming from, her expression turned perplexed. "Mikael?" she asked. "What's going on?"

"Oh, I was just helping Anna…" Blomkvist said, quickly. "She couldn't reach the top shelves. For dusting." He hoped his lie was convincing.

An apologetic look crossed Harriet's face, and she made eye contact with Anna.

"Anna, I'm so sorry," she said, quickly. "I completely neglected to mention that I had Günnar move all of the cleaning ladders downstairs earlier this week." She rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry, I've just been busy."

Anna put on a broader, artificial smile. She gave Harriet a gentle pat on the back.

"It's not a problem," she said, softly. "Lucky we had Mikael around."

Anna smiled at Blomkvist as she headed down the stairs to the kitchen. As she did this, Blomkvist found himself wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into.

The first thing Salander did upon discovering the telescope was log into Hacker Republic.

_Welcome to Hacker Republic, Citizen Wasp. It has been two days since your last visit. What would you like to do?_

Lisbeth chose to compose a new message.

To: _Plague, Trinity_

From: _Wasp_

Subject: _Vanger. _

_Meade 10 Inch LX200-ACF Advanced Coma Free Telescope with UHTC. Need log w/ names and dates of every purchase on the official website in the past six months. Look for anything 'Vanger'. Will pay you both for your time. _

Normally, Salander would have conducted this research herself. But at the moment, she felt there were far more pressing tasks at attend to. The telescope was intriguing, of course, but Salander was still more interested in the card. She reached over to her beside table, retrieving the Queen of Hearts. She opened an online dictionary, and began searching for Norwegian words that contained the letters _C, F, _and _D. _Salander sighed, and lit a cigarette. This was going to be a long and tedious task. She watched Hacker Republic idly, checking back from time to time, awaiting replies. No one seemed to be online. It took almost an hour for her first response to arrive.

A message from Trinity, complete with an attachment.

To: _Wasp_

From: _Trinity_

Subject: _Vanger._

_Compiled this list. Highlighted everything of interest. Hope this is what you needed. _

_Now, how much money are we talking about here?_

Salander stubbed out her cigarette and wrote a quick response. Then she opened the attachment, scanning the document as quickly as possible, searching for anything highlighted.

She found what she was looking for on the eighth page of sale's records.

_Sale to Henrik Vanger. June 5__th__… _

Salander skimmed the material, taking in each detail. The sale's record was immediately followed by Henrik's credit card information. Nothing seemed particularly unusual until Lisbeth ran a search on the credit card and found it belonged to Vanger industries, and not Henrik himself.

Salander frowned, examining the transaction records once again. The telescope in question was nearly twenty thousand kroner. Not a huge expense for a large company like Vanger industries, but certainly not something that would have been looked over. Henrik must have run this purchase by someone, beforehand.

Salander did a quick search of Vanger industries and found that— as the president of the company— Harriet Vanger was the currently in charge of Vanger Industries' finances.

Henrik must have discussed the purchase with her.

Salander slammed her laptop shut, grabbed her jacket and boots and headed for the door. She made her way downstairs with one intention in mind; finding Harriet Vanger.

It was only when she reached the bottom of the stairs that she realized the entire sitting room was full of guests conjoining for tonight's dinner.

Salander stopped in her tracks, staring, baffled and alarmed, at the cohort gathered before her.

Never in her life had she seen so many Vangers in the same room. They all wore the same expression; a cross between pain and frustration. Many of them stared at her, as if waiting for an explanation.

Salander's eyes darted around the room. She pushed her way into the crowd and headed for the door. The only way out was through. She would have to find Harriet later.

Just then, someone caught her arm.

Salander flinched, wrenching her arm away before looking to see who it was. She glared up at her agitator.

"Sorry," Blomkvist said, a genuinely apologetic look on his face. He seemed a little shocked, and held his hand out in mock-surrender.

Salander glanced around the room, feeling suddenly claustrophobic, but knowing it would be hard to get away now that she had been spotted.

"What are you doing?" she asked, for lack of better conversation.

"I was just about to ask you the same question," Blomkvist replied, still looking alarmed. "I thought you said you weren't coming to dinner?"

"I'm nor," Salander said. She pushed passed him, out the front door and into the snowy night. She stood on the steps for a moment, wondering what to do with herself now. She only had a moment to think before the door opened again, and Blomkvist emerged, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

Salander was about to tell him to go away— that she needed a moment to think— when he looked at her and said, "Just came out here to let you know the café is open until midnight. Honestly, it's probably a lot nicer there than it is out here. And the food is decent."

He gave a nervous tight-lipped smile, and nodded.

"Well…" he breathed. "I suppose I'll see you later."

He turned towards the door. As she watched him leave, Salander was once again struck with the strange sense of appreciation triggered by the fact that he _wasn't_ trying to stop her from leaving.

_Damn Kalle Fucking Blomkvist._ That was one of the most attractive things about him. He never tried to tell her how to live her life. He never intervened. He never overstayed his welcome. He gave her space when no one else did— when she didn't deserve it.

As Salander watched him disappear behind the door, she couldn't help but feel a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

_No, _she thought to herself. _I will not let this happen again. No. _

She stood paralyzed and horrified, on the front steps of the Vanger estate, for nearly ten minutes before she finally took Blomkvist's advice, and left for Susanne's café. The walk was long, and freezing, but it gave her time to think.

Salander's mind worked a million miles a minute as she trekked her way across Hedeby Island. She thought of Blomkvist first, knowing she would need some kind to strategy. Avoiding him wasn't going to work. They were living in close quarters as it was. Plus, Salander decided, she didn't _really_ want to avoid him at all. That particular strategy never worked out well for the two of them. Blomkvist always had a way of reaching her, and catching her attention. Fucking journalists.

It would be ridiculous to try to hide from him again.

Salander briefly toyed with the idea of seducing Mikael, the way she had the last time they were in Hedestad together. In the end, she decided she couldn't trust herself enough to fall back into that routine. She remembered the way she felt, watching Blomkvist and Erika Berger walk away from her, hand-in-hand. That was years ago, and the memory still made her uncomfortable, as did the feeling that had washed over her in the minutes that followed. Salander swore she would never let herself feel so vulnerable ever again.

No compromises.

Lastly, Salander considered leaving. Would it really be so hard? She wouldn't have to cut herself off completely. She could leave Blomkvist a message— an excuse. There was no reason for _her_ to stay here, after all…

The problem was, she was too damn invested in this mystery with the card.

Salander had a tendency to obsess over the most usual things; algebraic formulas, and genetic research… When something hooked her, she found it impossible to stay away. Until her interest waned, she was hooked.

And her interest in the card was far from waning.

Salander stopped in front of the café. She let out a heavy sigh decided that she would not be leaving Hedestad. With this, she realized she was, more or less, right back where she started.

All because of Kalle Fucking Blomkvist.

Salander walked inside and ordered a sandwich and some coffee from Susanne. She sat at a table in the far corner, brooding in silence and running through every Norwegian word she knew that contained the letters _C, F, _and _D, _for the tenth time.

Half-way through her meal, two men entered the café together, deep in conversation. At first, Salander paid them no mind. It wasn't until Susanne started chatting with them, that something piqued Salander's interest.

"How is your sister doing?" Susanne asked, wiping down the counters with a dishrag.

One of the men cleared his throat, looking forlorn. He tall and young, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a long jacket, and seemed underdressed, as if he hadn't anticipated this much snow.

"I'm sure you can imagine…" the man said, shaking his head.

"She's not doing well," his friend— an equally tall man with blonde hair and strong jaw— said. "She emails Julien almost every day, but she's horribly depressed, and homesick."

Salander put her sandwich down and listened intently.

"Poor girl," Susanne clucked. "I can only imagine living with Isabella Vanger." She shuddered. "What a horrifying home to grow up in."

The men exchanged worried looks.

"We're going to request custody again in the fall," the man with the ponytail said. There was a slight tremor of hope in his voice.

"Nadia is lucky to have a brother like you," Susanne said. "You two are the best chance she has."

_Nadia, _Salander thought. So the man with the ponytail was her brother? She could see it now. They had the same dark hair— the same rigid posture.

"What brings you boys up to Hedestad?" Susanne asked, finally.

The blonde man sighed. "Henrik's funeral of course," he said.

Susanne looked sad. "Ah."

"We didn't know Herr Vanger," the man with the ponytail said. "Not personally, anyway. All we know is that he was very kind to my sister when she first moved here. It's a shame he's gone, really. Nadia could use an ally or two in this place." He looked around, sadly.

"Harriet Vanger always looks out for her," Susanne said, reassuringly. "I think they've bonded over a mutual dislike for Isabella."

The blonde man laughed. "Is that so?" he asked. He turned to his friend. "See, Julien? Maybe things aren't as grave as they seem."

"I hope you're right," the man with the ponytail— _Julien— _said.

Susanne gave a small, warm smile. "Well, I'm sure she'll be glad to see the two of you."

The blonde man chuckled. "I should hope so," he said. "We brought her some lovely gifts…" He reached into his pocket and retrieved a few small items. "Chocolate from Norway, magazines, playing cards…"

"Are you the one who gives her the cards?" Susanne asked, intrigued. "Nadia comes in here at least once a week with a notebook and a stack of playing cards. She sits down at a table and becomes completely engrossed in whatever it is she does. It's fascinating. She works very intently."

"What does she do?" Julien asked.

"You'll have to ask her," Susanne shrugged. "She's very secretive, your sister. She works meticulously on God-knows-what. I think she might be drawing."

"With playing cards?" Julien asked.

"Maybe she draws the cards," the blonde man offered.

Julien didn't look convinced.

Salander stood up abruptly and tossed the rest of her dinner in the trash. She paid Susanne quickly, and then walked around back, suddenly struck by an idea.

Finding the garbage bin was rather simple. Salander pushed the heavy lid back, and began rummaging through, careful to avoid half-eaten meals like the one she'd just discarded. It seemed as though Blomkvist was the only one with a particular fondness for Susanne's cooking.

Finding the stack of papers was not easy, but once they were found, Salander instantly got the feeling she was on to something. She held them up in the dim light behind Susanne's café.

The papers were slightly crumpled. Salander could just barely make out the sloppy scrawl of a young girl in a hurry.

Morse code. And writing. Salander recognized a few words in Norwegian.

She knew who this belonged to. This was a key— a clue. Salander folded the papers, and tucked them away in her jacket pocket. She decided to take a short cut on her way back to the Vanger estate.

It was on her trek home that Salander stopped for a brief moment, out in front of the guesthouse she and Blomkvist shared four years before. The place looked empty— desolate. Had she not been so determined to solve the mystery at hand, Salander surely would have been tempted to re-enter the old building, which now looked to be all but sealed off. The windows were covered. The door was bolted shut with several locks. The whole place seemed horribly suspicious. Salander made a mental note to return sometime during the day, then she turned and continued on to the Vanger estate.

When she reached the front steps again, Salander took a slow, deep breath.

_Time to make a decision, _she thought, to herself. The papers in her pocket felt like they weighed a ton. She shifted uncomfortably, and jammed her hands in her pockets before heading inside.

The room was bustling, still crowded with people talking, and eyeing one another suspiciously. Salander scanned the crowd for Blomkvist. She found him almost instantly, standing in a corner next to Harriet Vanger.

Salander made her way through the crowd towards him.

For the first time in ages, _she _was coming to _him. _

She had the information now. She wanted to solve this once and for all.

And, she decided, She didn't want to do it alone.


	8. Impulse Control

**Hello All. Thank you for your fantastic reviews. Here is a new chapter. Sorry it's a bit long, but I think some of you will find it rewarding. Fair warning, though, this is the chapter where the M rating *starts* to kick in. You have been warned. ~TruthIsOutThere**

Harriet Vanger was the first to acknowledge Blomkvist at dinner that night. As usual, it appeared the rest of the family was perfectly content turning the other cheek. Blomkvist was hardly surprised by this behavior. Unjust as it was, he knew very well that the Vanger's viewed him as a crude, journalistic infiltrator. They didn't appreciate anyone who rooted around in their lives.

Harriet, of course, was the exception, perpetually the middleman, caught between her cold and distrustful family, and the rest of the world around her. She had a brilliant way of disassociating herself from either or both parties when necessary. She could appeal to any audience. In this sense, she made the perfect CEO.

"Mikael," Harriet said, warmly, greeting him with a quick embrace. She smiled as she pulled away, though her eyes clearly showed her exhaustion. Blomkvist couldn't imagine organizing something like this, while also trying to run one of the leading industries in Sweden. He felt a sudden pang of sympathy towards Harriet; not only for losing her favorite uncle, but also for all of the trauma she would inevitably have to endure in his wake.

"I must apologize for my family," Harriet said, making no effort to lower her voice. "I think they'd rather pretend you don't exist." She smiled and leaned in to whisper in his ear. "They do the same to me. There really is nothing to worry about."

Blomkvist sipped his drink and gave a small shrug. "I didn't really except any different," he said. This was the truth.

Blomkvist watched Harriet survey the room, forlornly. She patted his shoulder in a way meant that was obviously to be reassuring, but her forceful grip gave away her underlying insecurity, standing here in a room full of glaring faces.

"They absolutely _loathe _me," Harriet muttered, sipping her drink. "They hate me for leaving Hedestad, and they hate me for coming back." She shook her head.

Blomkvist gave her a surprised look. He couldn't imagine anyone— even the Vanger's— would deny the necessity of Harriet's escape. "Surely, they understand why you left…"

Harriet shook her head, slowly. "They don't understand a thing, Mikael," she said. "Or at least, they pretend they don't understand. It's much easier to simply… forget the entire ordeal with Martin and my father and just… _move on." _She made a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Moving on means loathing me." She took another sip of her drink. "I suppose that's normal for a CEO. I'm sure my… _brother _had a similar reception." She raised an eyebrow. "At least that's what Frode keeps telling me." She sighed and glanced around the room yet again. "I can't believe he's gone…"

"Harriet, if there's anything I can do…" Blomkvist began. "Please, let me know."

She smiled at him and gave his shoulder another gentle squeeze. "You were always sweet," she said. Her eyes grew vaguely distant. "Henrik was very fond of you, you know. He thought of you as a friend, though I would understand if the feeling wasn't mutual." She gave Blomkvist a long look. "We, as a society, have a bad habit of glorifying the dead. Now, I loved my uncle dearly, don't you mistake that." She paused. "But I don't see any point in denying the fact that he screwed you over while you were staying here in Hedestad. The information he gave you was ages old." She shrugged. "He should have known better. It's as simple as that."

Blomkvist shook his head. "We all have… moments…" he said, at a loss for words. "Anyway, things worked out in the end. Wennerstrom is—"

"—Dead?" Harriet asked, with the tiniest chuckle.

Blomkvist blinked, slightly taken aback. "Well, yes, but I should be clear; that wasn't my intention…"

Now Harriet laughed more openly. "Of course not, Mikael." She smiled. "Like I said, you're too sweet." She held up her wine glass.

"To uncle Henrik," she said, softly.

"To Henrik," Blomkvist concurred.

They clinked their glasses together and drank deeply, watching group around them buzz with the dullest of intensities. Everyone around seemed bogged down and lifeless, as one might expect from a group mourners.

Blomkvist, however, got the impression this was rather the Vanger default demeanor.

Someone across the room caught his attention.

"Harriet?" Blomkvist said, setting his empty glass of wine aside. "Who is that?" he nodded in Nadia's Ivansson's direction. She sat alone, on a couch, a book in her lap. Of course, Blomkvist already_ knew_ who she was. But, as a journalist, he had learned that stories had several sides, all of which were worthy of examination.

"Her?" Harriet asked, following Blomkvist's gaze. He nodded.

Harriet's expression went grim. "That's Nadia," she explained. "I suppose…" she began. "Well, I suppose she's my second cousin."

"Your second cousin?" Blomkvist asked, prompting her to elaborate.

"She's my mother's grand niece. She's staying here for the time being."

"With Isabella?" Blomkvist asked.

Harriet let out a strange sound, akin to a sigh of frustration. "For now," she grumbled, obviously unhappy.

Harriet looked as if she was planning to say more, when her gaze suddenly shifted.

"What is it?" Blomkvist asked, turning around slowly.

That's when he saw her; dressed in leather and torn jeans as usual, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the pressed suits and gowns.

"Lisbeth," Blomkvist said, taken by surprise. "I thought you went to Susanne's?" He glanced down at her hand. She was carrying something— a paper. Blomkvist couldn't help but feel immediately suspicious.

"I did," Salander said. She nodded in Harriet's direction, her form of a greeting. "The food was horrible, so I came back." She made eye contact with him, holding his gaze for an unusually long amount of time.

Blomkvist knew instantly that something was off.

"I have to go upstairs and change. It rained," Salander said. Blomkvist and Harriet glanced at the West windowpane. This was the truth.

"I'll be back," Salander said. She eyed Blomkvist again as she moved towards the stairs.

She wanted him to follow her.

"Damnit," Blomkvist said, once Lisbeth was out of sight. Harriet gave him a concerned look. "I locked up our wing of the house after I left. There was a… dog running around here somewhere. I didn't want it getting into anything."

Harriet nodded in understanding. Clearly, she believed his lie. "It's Nadia's dog," she explained, with a tiny nod.

"I'll have to go unlock that for Lisbeth," Blomkvist said. "I hope you'll excuse me, she's not a very patient person."

Harriet nodded. "Of course," she said. "I've got to make my rounds here anyway." She gave him another tight-lipped smile. "Lots of stuffy, hostile family members who still need greeting."

Blomkvist sucked a breath in through his teeth. "Good luck," he said.

Harriet chuckled. "You too," she said. "I don't imagined Froken Salander is someone who likes to be kept waiting."

"No," Blomkvist said, gauging the reality of this statement. "She doesn't."

Harriet waved him off.

Blomkvist reached the guest quarters and found Salander waiting for him.

"Good. You're here," she said, stubbing out a cigarette.

"What's this about?" Blomkvist asked, confused.

"I found something," Salander said.

"Found something— _what?" _Blomkvist asked, confused. He walked over to stand beside her, as Salander pulled out her laptop.

Salander gave him a dead-eyed look. She got to her feet, but nudged her laptop towards him, as if encouraging him to see for himself.

"I— I can't stay long," Blomkvist said, but already he was loosening his tie, happy to be free of the stifling party downstairs.

He took a seat on the couch and pulled Salander's computer onto his lap. He gazed at the screen, trying to comprehend the string of names and numbers in front of him.

"Is this… some kind of transaction?" he asked, looking up from the computer.

Salander had disappeared into the kitchen. She reemerged a moment later with an open sandwich and a new cigarette. She took a seat beside him.

"Henrik Vanger," she said, with a nod.

Blomkvist glanced at her, curiously. He followed her gaze to something on the screen. Slowly, it became clear.

Blomkvist squinted at the computer.

"Was Henrik buying something?"

"The telescope," Salander said, taking the laptop back.

"The telescope…" Blomkvist repeated. He looked at Salander. "I still don't see what—"

She handed him a piece of paper. "Take a look at this," she said, getting to her feet. "See if you can work it out."

Blomkvist looked down at the crumpled paper in his hands. It honestly looked like gibberish. A mix of Swedish and Norwegian characters, drawn across a page…

"Lisbeth," he began. "What are you getting at here?"

Salander paused in the doorway, looking back at him blankly.

"That page was written by Nadia," she said, pointing at the paper in Blomkvist's hands.

"Okay… but," Blomkvist got to his feet. "What does this _mean, _Lisbeth?" He strode across the room until he stood less than a foot from her.

Salander turned away, instantly, growing cold. Blomkvist felt another pang of sympathy, this time for her. For the first time since their reunion, he thought of Salander the way she had been the last time he saw her— ravaged by the media, recovering from the kind of injustices that would make any sane person's skin crawl. _How could a person recover from something like that? _Blomkvist wondered. For a moment, he marveled in the fact that Salander was functional at all.

"Lisbeth…" he breath, softly. He reached out a placed a hand on her shoulder.

The motion seemed basic to him, but it made Salander's spine go rigid. He fought the instinct to retract his hand— for some reason that didn't feel right, either.

_No, _Blomkvist thought. If Salander didn't want him to touch her; she would make herself clear.

"You have to explain to me," Blomkvist said, slowly. "I can try but..." He gave a tiny laugh. "I don't think like you do."

Lisbeth turned, slowly, until she was partially facing him. She skillfully avoided eye contract as she reached down and took the papers from his hand.

"A code," she said, holding them up.

"Who's code?" Blomkvist asked.

"Nadia's," Salander continued. She paced back over to her computer. "She was trying to write something."

"Something about the telescope?" Blomkvist asked, still hopelessly lost.

"I'm not sure…" Salander said, slowly. "It doesn't make any sense to me, either." Blomkvist imagined that this probably wasn't very easy for her to admit.

"Lisbeth," he began, slightly frustrated. _"What _doesn't make any sense to you? What are we looking at?"

Salander closed her laptop and looked up at him, defiantly.

"Nadia Ivansson moves to Hedeby Island," she began. "Two weeks later, a thought-to-be crazy Henrik Vanger buys an expensive telescope and sets it up in his study. He had the viewfinder trained on _one place."_

"Yeah, I know. Anna told me… She said he always kept it pointed at the same coordinates. On the ground, not in the sky." Blomkvist rubbed his temples, feeling suddenly exhausted. "Knowing you, I assume you've already worked out where it was pointed?" he asked.

Salander nodded, looking thoughtful. She hopped up from her place, perched on the vast windowsill, overlooking the lake.

"Let me show you," she said, heading out of the room. Blomkvist followed her reluctantly, half afraid of what he would find.

Salander stopped just short of Henrik's office. She set her gaze on something outside of the large, dark window across from her. Blomkvist moved to stand by her side.

"See that?" Salander asked.

"What are you looking at, exactly?"

"The street," she said, as if this made things clearer. Salander took a step closer to the window. "That's where we were this morning, when we saw Nadia."

Blomkvist squinted and peered out of the cloudy windowpane. Sure enough, he could just barely make out Isabella Vanger's front porch steps.

"The view is better from Henrik's office, where the telescope was," Salander explained.

Blomkvist stared at her, taken aback. "You think Henrik was watching _Nadia?" _he asked.

Salander nodded.

Blomkvist gave her a conflicted look. "Lisbeth," he began. "You met the man, yourself. You saw how appalled he was by the misbehavior of his nephew. He didn't really strike me as the type to spy on little girls."

Salander took a drag on her cigarette.

"I don't think he was spying," she said, finally. "I have no reason to believe his intentions were inappropriate." Another drag— longer this time. "On the contrary, I think he might have been trying to help her."

"What do you mean?" Blomkvist asked, raising an eyebrow.

Salander shrugged. "There were cards in Henrik's office," she explained. "Nadia collects cards as well."

"How do you know she collects—?"

Salander shook her head, as if to say, _It's not important now. _

"Well that still doesn't explain much of anything," Blomkvist muttered, frustrated.

Salander looked up at him, curiously. "Another young girl staying with Isabella Vanger?" she asked. "I'm sure when Henrik heard the news, he was less than thrilled."

"Mmm…" Blomkvist nodded in agreement.

"He probably wanted to keep an eye on her," she said.

"Yes, but, a telescope seems a little extreme, don't you think?" Blomkvist asked.

"That's not what the telescope was for," Salander replied. There was an undeniable degree of certainty to her voice. Blomkvist couldn't help but believe her instantly. It was almost as if they were back, searching for Harriet Vanger together, as they once had. He was struck by her inherent brilliance.

"What was the telescope for, then?" Blomkvist asked.

Salander frowned and turned away from the window. "I'm still trying to work that out," she mumbled. "But I think it has something to do with the cards."

Blomkvist sighed. "Please explain," he said, for what felt like the millionth time that night.

Salander frowned, looking thoughtful.

"Nadia's cards come from her brother and his boyfriend in Norway. They sent her care packages frequently. Always with playing cards," she began. Blomkvist stared at her, slightly perplexed. He wondered when she had time to work this out. "Susanne at the café said she saw Nadia on more than one occasion, sitting at a table in the corner writing in notebook. She always brought her playing cards."

"You spoke to Susanne?" Blomkvist asked, curiously. He wondered if she had received a warmer reception than he had.

Blomkvist had been all but blacklisted by the gossiping Hedeby townspeople almost as soon as Lisbeth had moved in with him, nearly four years before. Immediately, he was presumed to be yet another twisted older man, housing a woman young enough to be his daughter. He had always wondered if Salander was received similarly, or if she was somehow seen as a victim.

Blomkvist almost laughed at the notion. If they only knew…

"I didn't speak to Susanne," Salander said, grabbing Blomkvist's attention yet again. "I was at the café… I overheard things." She paused, like she wanted to say more, but wasn't sure if she should.

"If I remember correctly, the tables at Susanne's are quite small…" Blomkvist began. "Everything Nadia brought with her must have gotten jumbled up. That's probably how the card we have ended up covered in lettering." He paused, thinking. "I don't suppose she left anything behind?"

Salander nodded at the paper in his hand. "I found it in the bin behind the café," she said. "I haven't been able to decipher the code yet. It's half Swedish, half Norwegian, but the words make no sense. It's almost as if it was written in an entirely different language, all together."

Blomkvist studied the paper closely. _E-K-W-J-J. _It looked like gibberish.

"Do you have a theory?" he asked, folding the paper gingerly and handing it back to her.

Lisbeth looked up at him, her eyes as bright and curious as they had ever been.

"I think she was writing a message," she began, hesitantly. "Possibly for Henrik Vanger."

Blomkvist frowned. "What kind of message?" he asked.

"Could be anything." Salander shrugged. "It must have something to do with the telescope…" she shook her head.

"And the cards," Blomkvist added. "Both Henrik _and _Nadia had plenty of them. They must be of _some _significance."

Salander nodded in agreement and took a final drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray on the windowsill.

"We should talk to Nadia," Blomkvist said, abruptly. The journalist in him was taking control.

_ Skip the sources. Go straight to the focus._

Henrik was dead, that left only Nadia to explain.

Salander looked reluctant. "She won't talk," she said finally, leaning against the wall.

"What makes you so sure?" Blomkvist asked.

Salander shrugged. "She barely said a word to you earlier."

"Well, she might talk to you," Blomkvist said, with a reasonable shrug. Salander frowned and looked at him, quizzically.

"I mean, she's probably seen you on the news," Blomkvist said, with the smallest of smirks. "You're practically a celebrity, you know."

Salander glared at him, but she didn't stay angry for long.

"Her brother's in town," she said, calmly, gazing out the window at the rain. She turned her attention back to Blomkvist. "You could start with him."

Blomkvist looked uncomfortable. "Do you really think it's a good idea?" he asked. "Stirring up trouble at Henrik's funeral…"

"This isn't his funeral," Salander pointed out, quickly.

"Still." Blomkvist sighed. "I don't want to demonize the man. Insinuating that he may have spent his final months spying on a fourteen-year-old girl…" Blomkvist shook his head. "Ill-intentioned or not, that kind of behavior never looks good. I don't want to slander Henrik." He gave a tiny snort. "I've learned my lesson when it comes to speaking without absolute certainty."

Salander shrugged. "So, approach it differently," she said, as if it were just that easy.

"How?" Blomkvist asked.

"You'll think of something," Salander said. Then she turned and strode back into their sitting room. She picked up her laptop.

"I have Plague running a background check on the Ivanssons now. I'll him the code as well. If anyone can crack it; it will be one of us."

"Well, it shouldn't be _too _complicated, should it?" Blomkvist asked. "I mean; she's fourteen." Even as he said the words, he realized the error in his train of thought.

If Lisbeth Salander had trouble breaking a code, it was a damn hard code. That was that.

Salander typed something up on her computer, and then set it aside.

"I should hear back by tomorrow morning," she said.

"Great." Blomkvist shrugged. "What now?"

Salander glanced around the room, thoughtfully.

"Now you should go speak to Nadia's brother," she said, nodding to herself.

"Right…" Blomkvist wracked his brain for an adequate excuse to do so. He turned towards the door, and then stopped himself.

"Lisbeth," he said. She looked up from her laptop screen. "This isn't our fight," he said. "Honestly. Why exactly are we doing this?"

Salander gave him a long look.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she said, simply.

She waited for his answer, head cocked slightly to the side, eyes mostly dull, harboring the slightest glint of curiosity.

Indifferent, impartial, and impossible as always, this was the woman Mikael Blomkvist had fought so vehemently with and _for _for the last four years of his life. She had ignored him, abandoned him, and completely baffled him from the start. She had also saved his life.

Blomkvist realized then that it didn't matter that this wasn't their fight. If this was what it took to be around Lisbeth Salander, then he would have no problem committing himself, fully.

"What's Nadia's brother's name?" Blomkvist asked, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

"Julien Ivansson," Salander replied, calm as always. She slouched back against the couch, as if relaxing into his agreement to work with her. She nodded towards the hallway. "He should be here by now."

Salander waited for a response from Plague for almost an hour before picking up Nadia's scrawlings and disappearing into the large, master bathroom. She undressed quickly, leaving her clothes in a disorganized heap beside the door. Then she filled the bathtub with the hottest water she could stand, in hopes that the heat and intensity would jog something within her.

Salander set Nadia's paper beside the bathtub and slowly lowered herself into the water, feeling her skin sting. She lay back carefully, submerging her face under the steamy surface. Her vision swam as she looked up at the ceiling through the water. She frowned, watching the tile spin and blur above her.

Salander ran through the mental list of combinations she had tested out on Nadia's writing. The letters; _E-K-W-J-J _didn't seem to amount to much in Swedish _or _Norwegian on their own, but she still couldn't shake the feeling that there had to be some kind of key…

She had tried all of the basics: anagram, SMS, foreign texts, so on and so fourth. Generally speaking, Salander could crack these kind of riddles in seconds. But not now. This kid was not so simple. Whatever it was she had written, she had heavily encoded.

Salander's breached the surface of the water, and she sucked in a deep breath. She reached out— semi-blind in the heavy steam— and felt around for Nadia's paper. When she found it, she drew it close to her face and examined the letters again, looking for anything she might have missed the first time. The lettering was straight and uniform— no sign of encoding there. The paper was unmarked. This was no plot, either.

Salander frowned and leaned back against the side of the tub. Somewhere in the other room, her email alert sound sounded. She put Nadia's paper aside for the time being. Then she climbed out of the bathtub, wrapped herself in a towel, and paced out into the sitting room in search of her computer.

Salander approached her laptop, drying her hands on her towel. She reached out to grab it when something else caught her eye.

Salander turned towards the large window, overlooking the lake below. She could swear she had seen something. Some sort of _light…_ moving slowly.

Salander stepped closer to the window.

That's when she saw it.

Caught in a tangle of tree branches just above their balcony, was a helium party balloon, with a small LED light inside. Salander opened the window, reaching her damp arm out into the frigid night and tugging the balloon in by the string. She popped it with her teeth, pulled the tiny LED light from the now-deflated balloon carcass, and tore the thing apart further in search of anything unusual.

It took her less than two seconds to find what she was looking for.

A chill ran down her spine.

Salander sprinted over to the window, glancing down at the ground below. No one stood there, waiting. As far as she could see, Henrik Vanger's side-yard was completely deserted.

_Damnit._

Salander rushed into the bathroom and dressed in a hurry. She ran down the stairs and reentered the Vanger family procession looking like a mad woman, her hair wet and askew in every way, her eyes wild.

Salander pushed her way through the ogling crowd and out into the night. She didn't stop to find Mikael. She didn't even think to grab a coat. She simply clutched her newest shred of evidence, and strode out into the snow.

Salander surveyed the perimeter of the building in a hurry. She had a feeling whoever had sent this message was already long gone. She spun around quickly, examining the party from the other side of the windowpane. All of the obvious suspects were present— their coats free of snow. Julien, Nordhamm, and Nadia sat together beside a window, deep in discussion. Salander bit her lip, frustrated.

Who sent her this fucking message?

She looked down at the card in hand. King of Diamonds. She flipped it over once, making sure she hadn't missed any markings.

Alas, it seemed only the white edges of the cardstock had been defaced by a deep purple maker.

_C-F-D-K-E-K-W-J-J _

Someone was trying to send her a message.

Salander glared at the card in frustration.

This damn code was proving to be infuriatingly persistent…

Salander turned on her heel and paced down the drive in search of whoever had left the clue for her. She made it all the way to the front gate before she heard a strange noise, and realized what was happening.

A large shadow darted out across the road.

Someone was running from her.

Salander broke into a sprint, chasing the stranger down the drive and out onto the desolate main road. Despite his turbulent stride, Salander was able to deduce three things rather quickly.

First of all, the person she was chasing was a man. Secondly, he was young— probably no older than fifteen. Finally, this stranger had a limp, like he had hurt himself somehow. He was favoring his right leg, and this left him at a disadvantage. His injury slowed him down, which enabled Salander to keep _up._

The stranger veered off at the end of the road, racing downhill into the woods. Salander followed without hesitation. She moved as quickly as she could, darting around mounds of snow and fallen debris. Thankfully, the boy she was following seemed to find the downhill climb fairly challenging, and slowed even further. At one point, Salander thought she had finally caught up to him. Unfortunately the ground leveled out shortly after that, and she found herself chasing the stranger along the narrow shoreline beside the lake. It took her a long moment to realize where they were headed.

_The bridge? _she thought, curiously. She picked up her pace to keep up with the stranger. What was at the bridge? She wondered.

Salander stopped short as the stranger faded into the shadows. For a moment, she relied only on her hearing. Whoever this was did a good job of evading her for the time being. He stopped as soon as Lisbeth did, leaving her alone in silence.

It only lasted for a moment, though. Just as Salander began to consider doubling back and trying to find the kid again, he darted out from behind a tree, and made a beeline straight for the bridge up ahead.

Salander chased after him at full speed. She followed him up the steep and rocky hillside, and onto the bridge that connected Hedeby Island to the rest of Sweden.

The kid stopped in his tracks.

Salander froze, trying to anticipate his next move.

_Who the hell are you? _she wondered, taking one tentative step forward.

The kid turned around. Even in the darkness, Salander knew instantly that she had never seen him before. She would remember.

This was a complete stranger.

Salander frowned and squinted into the night, unsure of what to do next. She reached into her pocket and retrieved the playing card, holding it up so he could see that she had, indeed, received his message.

This turned out to be the wrong thing to do.

Without a moment's hesitation, the kid turned and climbed over the railing. For a split second, he stood, precariously balanced, on the absolute edge of the bridge. Salander stared at him, wide-eyed. If she tried to move towards him, he would jump. If she tried to move away…

Salander had no time to finish her thought. In a split second, the kid leaned forward, let go of the railing, and fell from the bridge to the water below. Salander lunged after him, but of course, it was no use. She stood, by the railing, her breath rising in plumes, in the frigid air. She waited for the splash, which came less than a moment later.

Salander glanced around. She was on alone on the bridge. Without thinking, she kicked off her boots and laid the playing card aside.

Salander climbed over the railing, testing her balance on the edge of the cement. She knew, from memory, that this would be a long drop, but certainly a survivable one, if the person jumping intended to survive.

She sucked in a deep breath and let go of the railing.

The fall felt shorter than it was.

Salander knew, the moment she hit the water, that jumping had been a mistake.

The temperature was a shock, jarring to her body. For a moment, she struggled in deciding which way was up, and which was down. Water rushed by her head, filling her ears and making her vision swim. She felt herself begin to rise towards the surface, and gave a good kick, propelling herself to the air above.

When she breached the surface, Salander glanced around, frantically. The normally still water rippled around her as a result of her jump. She had to tread hard to stay afloat.

Salander swam towards the spot where the kid had landed. She couldn't see more than two feet in front of her, surrounded by pitch-black water. There was no sign of another person anywhere. Salander began to wonder whether the kid may have stuffed his pockets with rocks, or some other insanity, to keep himself from floating to the surface. She dove down into the frigid water once again, infuriatingly unaware of her surroundings. She felt around in the open water, knowing it was completely useless. If this kid was suicidal, he was long gone. If he had somehow managed to evade her…

Salander swam to the surface once again and glanced around herself. Still no sign of any other person.

Then again, the lake was vast.

Jumping in had been a big mistake, she thought again, angrily. She had lost all perspective. It would have been smarter to simply patrol the shores.

Salander shook her head, furious with her own rash decision. The icy water around her chilled her to the bone. She began to paddle back towards shore, when something got caught her foot.

It took Salander a moment to realize it was someone's hand grabbing her.

A sharp tug on her ankle pulled Salander four feet down under the icy water. She kicked hard with her free foot, smashing her heel into something that felt plastic. She kicked again, clawing at the finger's now curled around her calf. They didn't budge. Whoever her attacker was, he wasn't reacting to anything simple.

Salander propelled herself downwards in the water, twisting at an uncomfortable angle to reach the face of her attacker. She felt hair— short and thick like that on the head of the kid she had chased. Was it possible this same person was now attempting to drown her? She launched another kick right into his face. Something plastic was definitely in her way. She reached down again, starting to feel slightly lightheaded from the lack-of-oxygen.

Salander felt a heavy diving mask on the face of her attacker. She pulled the goggles back, hoping to obscure his vision. Then she launched another kick right where she imagined his eyes were.

She felt the grip on her ankle loosen.

Salander squirmed, feeling dizzy and frantic. She kicked as hard as she could and clawed at the hand on her foot, causing her attacker to finally lose his grip.

She kicked hard, one final time, propelling herself upwards. When she breached the surface, she stopped for only a moment to gasp for air. Acutely aware that her attacker could reappear at any moment, she wasted no time in making it back to shore.

Trudging out of the water, Salander stopped for a moment. She doubled over and choked on the water she had sucked into her lungs. She glanced out at the dark lake in front of her, desperately hoping to see something… _anything. _

Salander could feel the adrenaline pulsing in her veins. Walking away at this point would be physically painful. Whoever he was… she wanted to take this bastard out.

The wind rustled the trees overhead, and Salander felt her skin erupt in goose bumps. Nevertheless, she stood stalk-still for nearly ten minutes before finally accepting the fact that she would have to return home to avoid hypothermia. She turned on her heal and trudged up the hill, cursing herself for ever jumping into that damn lake.

By the time Salander made it back to the Vanger estate, she felt numb all over, and longed for the hot bath that had undoubtedly gone cold in her absence.

From her place outside the estate, she could see the dinner was still underway. Instead of barging in through the front door, which would inevitably arise a number of questions she was in no mood to answer, Salander walked around back and knocked, hoping someone in the kitchen would let her in.

Anna opened the door almost instantly.

Her face drained of all color as soon as she saw Lisbeth. Salander tried to imagine what she must have looked like.

"Froken Salander," Anna breathed, stepping aside. "Are you okay?" She ushered Lisbeth into the house, and handed her a small towel.

Salander nodded, trying to decide how to best get upstairs without drawing too much attention to herself.

"Did someone do this to you?" Anna asked, concerned.

"I'm fine," Salander said. Then she glanced over in Anna's direction. "Don't mention this," she said.

Anna nodded slowly, her eyes wide with confusion.

Salander slipped out into the hallway and crept up the stairs, thankful that everyone had moved into the dining room while she was gone.

When she reached the guest quarters, Salander stopped in the window and stared out at the dark lake. She tried to calculate exactly where it was that she had jumped. And where she had been when she was attacked.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, _she thought, angrily. _I should have never jumped in that water…_

"Lisbeth?"

Salander flinched in surprise. She whirled around to see Blomkvist standing in his bedroom doorway, an utterly perplexed look on his face.

She stared at him, blankly, her hair and clothes dripping water all over the floor.

Blomkvist assessed her appearance and shook his head. Rather than ask questions, he reached out to take the playing card, and her boots, which she had been carrying.

"You should take a shower," he noted. He looked like he was dying to say more, but he was choosing to bite his tongue for the time being.

Salander's gaze flickered around the room. She couldn't decide whether to rehash her experience now, or wait until the morning. In many ways, it felt like a waste of time altogether. She had already determined that her impulsive plunge into the water was idiotic. She didn't need Blomkvist saying that as well.

Her teeth chattered, despite herself.

Blomkvist looked down at the card in his hand.

"Same message," he marveled.

Salander nodded.

Blomkvist looked at her for a long moment.

"You know," he said. "It really isn't healthy for you to stand around in your wet clothes. You're gonna catch hypothermia. Go take a shower."

Salander took his advice and disappeared into the master bathroom. She stood under the hot water for half an hour before reemerging and crawling straight into bed. She left the lights on, staring up at the ceiling and trying to make sense of everything that had happened to her. _A message,_ _a kid, a chase, an attack… _It all felt like too much to take in at once. Like someone was messing with her head.

Salander heard a knock on the door. She propped herself up on her elbows. "Come in," she said.

Blomkvist nudged the door open with his knee. His arms were full. He handed her a cup of coffee, and placed her laptop on the bed beside her.

"Your computer hasn't been quiet all night," he said, eyeing it suspiciously, like it was a child who had refused to behave.

"Plague's background check," Salander said, moving to access her email.

Blomkvist reached out and gently touched the side of her face.

Salander flinched, glaring at him. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Making sure you don't have hypothermia," he said, unfazed by her hostility. "You're very… pale." He took a sip of his own coffee. "Paler than usual."

Salander frowned and opened her laptop.

"Any luck with the code?" Blomkvist asked.

"Nope," Salander said, skimming Plague's e-mail report on Julien and Nadia Ivansson.

"But this is a start," Blomkvist said, in a way that prompted her to agree.

Salander only shook her head, suddenly aware of how unbelievably frustrated she was by this entire ordeal.

"Are you hurt?" Blomkvist asked. He looked at her in a way that seemed like he feared she might spontaneously combust at any moment.

"I'm okay," Salander said. She looked up at him, still slightly confused, but infinitely more comfortable here. She felt as though she could think more clearly about this particular subject while in his presence. Again, she grappled with telling him the story, but eventually decided against it. She really was too tired to talk— too tired to argue.

"Should I be worried?" Blomkvist asked. His eyes were trusting. It was her decision whether to talk or not. He respected that. He always had.

"Not yet," she said. She looked away.

Suddenly, it was almost painful to look upon his face. Salander felt the same rush of unacceptable helplessness she had felt the night she saw Mikael walk away with Erika Berger.

_No, _she thought, angrily. She had sworn off of this. She would not be helpless towards Blomkvist or anyone else.

_No compromises. _

"Jesus, you're cold," Blomkvist muttered. Only then did Lisbeth notice his hand on her forearm. "Let me go get you more coffee, or a blanket or something…" he stood up and put his mug down on her bedside table.

"I'm fine," Salander said, quickly. She knew it was irrational to be angry with him about this. Still… it was so hard not to be…

"Lisbeth," Blomkvist said, leaning against the doorframe. "Honestly, I've been involved in enough death and murder scandals that are somehow connected to you. I really can't explain to the police how I let _you _freeze to death, on top of everything else." He paused, giving her a stern look. "It's exhausting," he said. "And my career really can't take another hit right now."

Salander sighed and watched him disappear in search of more blankets. She lay back against her pillows and closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. She could still feel a slight buzz of adrenaline in her veins. She fidgeted uncomfortably under the sheets.

Blomkvist reappeared a moment later and handed her a quilt.

"Why did you leave the party?" she asked, staring up at the ceiling.

Blomkvist took a seat on the edge of the bed.

"I wasn't exactly wanted there," he said, with a shrug.

"I'm sure Harriet didn't mind your company," she said. The words came out more acidic than she had intended. Blomkvist gave her a confused look.

"Harriet had other guests to tend to," he explained. "I stuck around for the gathering beforehand, but at dinner…" he shrugged. "It just didn't feel right." Blomkvist took another sip of his coffee. "I talk to Julien Ivansson, though," he said. "And his boyfriend… Nordhamm. Strange name." Blomkvist shook his head. "They had some interesting things to say, actually. Nothing _too _groundbreaking, but—"

"— Stop," Salander said, cutting him off. She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm too tired," she said.

Blomkvist reached and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. He sucked a breath in through his teeth.

"Jesus, Lisbeth," he breathed. "What the hell happened to you?"

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and sighed, heavily.

"I went in the lake," she said, through clenched teeth.

"You went… in the lake?" Blomkvist asked, confused. "In that lake?" He nodded towards the window.

Salander gave him a hard look. _Too tired._

Blomkvist responded with a resigned sigh. "I'm going to be gone for a few hours tomorrow," he announced, changing the subject. "I'm meeting my daughter's roommate. She's a journalist. Or, she wants to be one. She wants my advice." He looked perplexed. Then he turned his attention to Salander. "She's very curious about _you, _actually."

Salander gave him a warning look.

"Oh, don't worry," he said, quickly. "I'm not going to talk about you." He paused. "I mean, I'm sure _she _will. But I promise, I'll do my best to change the subject." He gave her a tiny smile.

Salander snorted. "Just what I need," she muttered. "Another journalist rooting around in my life."

This made Blomkvist laugh. He smiled at her. "Goodnight Lisbeth," he said, gently. He stood up to leave.

That's when something strange happened.

Salander reached out and grabbed his hand, preventing him from leaving her side. She froze, shocked by her own impulsive behavior.

_Damnit, you just can't think straight tonight, can you? _

Blomkvist stared at her, surprised.

"Sorry," Salander said, instantly. She averted her gaze.

"It's fine," Blomkvist said. He sat back down on the edge of her bed, and watched her, curiously.

"Lisbeth…" he began. His voice was low— quiet. "Why did you—?" He stopped himself.

"Why did I what?" Salander asked, still making a great effort _not _to look him in the eye.

"Never mind." Blomkvist shook his head. "I don't want to risk it," he said.

"Risk what?" Salander asked.

Blomkvist bit his lip. "Sometimes, I feel like, when I breach certain subjects…" He paused, clearly struggling to find the right words. "Sometimes I feel like you get scared away or something. I don't really understand it."

Salander gave him a hard look. "I don't get scared away," she said, defensively.

Blomkvist shook his head. "It's just…" he trailed off. "Lisbeth," he breathed. "What _happened _between the two of us?"

Salander shifted away from him immediately.

"One day we were fine and then…" Blomkvist looked conflicted. "It's been killing me for the longest time. I don't understand."

"You don't need to understand everything," Salander said.

"I know," Blomkvist breathed. "I know _that. _But it doesn't change the fact that you baffle me sometimes. One moment we're together, and then you disappear. I think you're traveling Europe, and the next thing I know, you're here in Hedestad, trying to solve some kind of mystery and… jumping into lakes." He sighed. "Can you see how that might be a little confusing for me?"

Salander didn't respond. Her mind was moving a million miles a minute, as she tried to figure out how to extricate herself from this situation.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, finally.

Blomkvist looked taken aback. "From you?" he asked. "Nothing."

"Then why are you here?" she asked. "Why are you wasting your time? You said it yourself; this isn't our fight. Why are you helping me, if you don't want _something?" _She let out a sigh of frustrating.

"Lisbeth," Blomkvist said, sounding almost… _hurt. _"Not everyone has a motive, you know. If anything, I want to be your friend."

"You already have been," Salander pointed out. "You got me through the trial. You helped me. You were my friend. I said thank you."

"I mean _long term," _Blomkvist said. "I like to be around you," he explained. "I like to talk to you. I like to listen to you. All I want is to know that when I say goodbye… it's not forever." He gave a tiny laugh. "I'm not asking you to change your ways," he said. "All I want is a tiny _shred _of stability. That's it. I promise. I'll leave it at that."

Salander looked up at him, trying to mask the surprise she felt upon hearing his words.

_Not everyone has a motive._

She frowned. "Come here," she said, suddenly, taking them both by surprise.

"What?" Blomkvist looked confused.

"Come here," Salander said.

Blomkvist leaned in closer to her. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Salander shook her head. She leaned forward slightly, so her face was close to his.

_You can do this, _she told herself. _You can do this easily. _

Lisbeth Salander did not back down.

Salander placed a hand on the back of Blomkvist's neck, and drew him closer to her. He took a tiny breath of pure anticipation before she kissed him hard on the mouth.

As usual, Salander cut right to the chase. The kiss built quickly, and she pulled him closer until they were both horizontal and he was on top of her.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Blomkvist said, pulling away.

"Are you still seeing that SÄPO woman?" Salander asked.

Something shifted in Blomkvist's gaze. "Monica?" he asked. "No… No… I'm not. It's not that." He shook his head. "I still don't think this is a very good idea."

"You never think it's a good idea," Salander pointed out.

"Has it ever been?" Blomkvist asked. He looked more conflicted than she had ever seen him. "Damn it, Lisbeth, I just don't want _this _to be the thing that makes you leave again."

Salander cocked her head to the side, curiously. She gave him a long look.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, with a tiny shrug.

Blomkvist almost laughed. "No, not right now…" he said. He looked away from her, and bit his lip. "But God… what about later?" He glanced at her, expecting some kind of solid response.

"Who cares," Salander asked. She kissed him again, and he kissed her back.

"I care," Blomkvist muttered between kissed. "I really do."

"Don't worry about that now," Salander pressed.

"It's hard not to," he murmured. But it was becoming more and more difficult to get a word in, as their kisses grew hungrier, infused with a bizarre sense of need that made Salander pull him closer as he planted kisses along her jaw line down her neck. She let out a tiny sigh of pleasure, despite herself. Blomkvist's mouth curved into a smile against her throat. He was obviously pleased with himself to eliciting such a sound.

He slid her t-shirt up over her head, and immediately, Lisbeth felt self-conscious. She realized this was the first time he had seen her since her breast augmentation, and she had no idea how he would react.

Blomkvist didn't say a word. Thankfully, he seemed more intrigued than off put.

"When did you have this done?" he asked finally.

"Three years ago," Lisbeth said. "At a clinic in Italy."

Blomkvist nodded, a was a lustful kind of look in his eye. "They're quite nice," he remarked. Then he pressed a series of kisses to her collarbone, moving steadily downward and planting kisses on her breasts, teasing her mercilessly until she could barely contain herself.

_Alright, enough, _Salander thought, pulling him up so she could kiss him again.

She cast all thoughts of cards and messages out of her mind for the time being, and lost herself in the situation at hand.


	9. The Fire

**Okay, so here is another chapter. I finally got the chance to sit down yesterday and write out exactly how this is going to end (just thought I'd let you know, so all of you reading don't think I'm just… making things up as I go along. I'm really not.) Anyway. This chapter is really here to thicken the plot a bit. There will be more character interaction in the next chapter, I swear. I just needed to set up the mystery element a bit more here. Thank you all for reading and thank you for the favorites and reviews! I'm thinking of trying to post another chapter later this week, if possible. I know it took me a while to get this one posted, but I don't really want to fall into the habit of waiting so long between posts so… I suppose we'll see. **

**Thanks again. **

**~TruthIsOutThere **

Mikael Blomkvist found it incredibly difficult to get out of bed the next morning. He awoke to the sound of rain, only to remember he was in for another day of insufficient public transportation and bad weather in Hedestad.

On the other hand, he also awoke to find himself pleasantly entangled with Lisbeth Salander, who lay fast asleep beside him. She looked uncharacteristically peaceful, he thought, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of simply staying here until she woke. It was an appealing notion.

Blomkvist would have liked nothing more than to sit down for bagels and coffee with Lisbeth and possibly attempt to persuade her to disclose the circumstances surrounding her plunge into the lake the night before. Unfortunately, though, he had made other commitments, and it was too late to back out now.

Blomkvist reluctantly got out of bed, careful not to wake Lisbeth in the process. He took a quick shower, made a pot of coffee, and left the guest quarters at eight A.M. sharp.

On his way downstairs, Blomkvist ran into Anna for the second time in two days. He wondered if the poor woman did anything besides running frantically around the house all day long, cleaning up innumerable messes. She looked alarmed, as always, a tall stack of clean linen in her arms. Blomkvist reached out to steady the pile as it threatened to topple.

"Herr Blomkvist. You startled me," she said, breathlessly. He could tell she was trying to pass off her usual nervousness as surprise.

Blomkvist raised his eyebrows. "Sorry," he said, quickly. Then noticing the way she struggled under the weight of the linen, he asked if he could help.

"Oh, no thank you, and no need to apologize." Anna gave a weak smile. Then she nodded in the direction of the foyer. "Will you be eating breakfast the others?"

Blomkvist gave her a blank look. "The… others?" he asked, craning his neck to see around her.

"Oh, yes. Harriet is having breakfast here this morning with Nadia and the two other gentlemen who came to see her… Ah, Lord. Their names never fail to escape me."

"Julien and Nordhamm?" Blomkvist asked.

"Yes, yes. Julien and Nordhamm," Anna confirmed. "They're all downstairs now." She raised her eyebrows. "Are you planning to join them?"

"No, I'm afraid I can't. I was just on my way out to meet a colleague." Blomkvist nodded, feeling slightly uncomfortable. The act of making small talk with Anna felt painfully contrived, especially given their run-in the day before.

Anna had asked Blomkvist to look into Henrik's final days, and Blomkvist had agreed. But now, standing here, it felt as if that conversation had never happened. Clearly Anna was no businesswoman. She seemed to struggle with the social aspect, as if delegating these interactions was almost painful for her. She couldn't look Blomkvist in the eye, and he was forced to assume this sudden bout of timidness was the result of their agreement.

Maybe she was afraid he would mention something to Harriet.

Blomkvist made a mental note to speak to Anna about confidentiality later that evening, when he returned form lunch with Tish.

"Well," Anna said, finally, breaking the silence. "Be sure to stop by and say hello to Harriet. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you."

"I'll do that."

Blomkvist gave a tight-lipped smile, and continued downstairs. He caught Harriet's eye as he crossed the foyer, and he gave her a tiny nod of acknowledgement, not wanting to disrupt her breakfast.

He had almost made it out the door when he heard a voice calling after him.

"Herr Blomkvist!"

Blomkvist turned around to see a blonde man in a heavy coat racing towards him from the dining room.

"Nordhamm," Blmokvist said, pleasantly. "Good morning. How are you?"

Nordhamm gave an uncomfortable smile, and Blomkvist remembered him mentioning something about his Swedish being a little rusty, the night before.

"Can I help you with something…?" Blomkvist asked, slowly. He hoped Nordhamm could grasp that much, as Blomkvist hardly understood a word of Norwegian.

"I found this when I went for a walk this morning," Nordhamm said. His accent was almost unintelligibly thick. Blomkvist had to strain to understand him.

Nordhamm reached into his pocket and retrieved a small, black glove.

"Does this belong to your—" Nordhamm frowned, as if he couldn't conjure up the right word. "—Your friend?" he stuttered.

"Who, Lisbeth?" Blomkvist asked. He looked down at the glove, and then back at Nordhamm. "Where did you say you found this?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"By the lake," Nordhamm said, pointing at the lakeside, barely visible from the ground floor windows of the Vanger Estate. "Julien and I went for a walk before sunrise," he explained. "It was resting kind of… in the shrubs, beside the bridge."

Blomkvist turned the glove over in his hands. It looked like something that might belong to Lisbeth. Then again, there were quite a few people living in Hedeby. It seemed strange that Nordhamm would come to him, first.

"It probably is her's," Blomkvist said. "Thanks." He tucked the glove in his pocket, and gave Nordhamm a curt nod. "I'll see you around."

"See you," Nordhamm said.

Blomkvist left the Vanger Estate feeling slightly confused, and suspicious regarding Nordhamm. On his way to the train station, he made a point to stop beside the lake and take a look around. There were at least four sets of footprints running along the bank that lead to the bridge, two of which he now knew belonged to Julien and Nordhamm. A third very well could have come from Lisbeth. But the fourth was still a mystery.

On one hand, this was public property, Blomkvist reminded himself. Any resident of Hedestad could take a stroll by the lake any time they wished. On the other hand, Blomkvist couldn't get over his weariness. Maybe it was just this place, but he found it increasingly difficult to shake his suspicions.

He wondered if Lisbeth had been chased. That certainly would explain how she ended up in the lake.

Blomkvist gazed out at the dark water, and hoped, for her sake, that this theory was untrue. After everything she'd endured in the past few years alone, the last thing Lisbeth Salander needed was another run-in with trouble, or hostile men who hated women.

Still, the idea that someone like Salander would go the rest of her life without raising hell one way or another was enough to make Blomkvist laugh aloud.

It was a preposterous thought.

When Blomkvist finally boarded the train to Litenstad an hour later, he ran through his usual routine. He walked to the concession car, bought a pack of cigarettes, and went to smoke a bit beside an open window. Then he walked back to concession purchased a coffee, and a bagel, and returned to his seat to check his email.

Three new emails awaited him in his _Millennium _inbox. The first was from Erika— a friendly reminder to finish up his piece if he wanted it included in the next issue.

Blomkvist let out a long sigh and stared out the window at the Swedish countryside. Everything seemed so _strange _all of a sudden. Here he was again, playing detective with Lisbeth Salander. Only this time his responsibilities were not on hold. People at home still depended on him. He had segments to complete, writer's block be damned. And yet _still, _all he _really _wanted was return to Hedestad and run through evidence again with Lisbeth.

Much had changed in the three days since he had arrived in this barren place.

The second email was junk mail, which Blomkvist quickly discarded. The third message was from Malin Eriksson, who was trying to find a time when Blomkvist could meet up with a potential investor the magazine had taken under serious consideration.

Blomkvist replied quickly, letting Erika know that he would try and finish his article by the next night, and telling Malin he wouldn't be home until the end of the week.

He wondered if that were true.

Blomkvist felt a sudden pang of conflict. Of course he would have to return to Stockholm. Relatively soon, at that. He couldn't stay here forever, and Henrik's funeral was only two days away. Still, oddly enough, he just couldn't keep himself from dreading his departure. Or wondering what would happen from that point on. His thoughts always wandered back to Lisbeth.

Mikael Blomkvist was not in love with Lisbeth Salander. But in a way, she was a friend unlike any other he had ever had. She had saved his life— a debt he could never fully repay, though he suspected he would spend the rest of his life trying. Helping to clear her name the year before was one of the most redeeming things he had ever done. In the process, he had seen a glimpse of Lisbeth's private hell, and while he would never be so presumptuous as to claim that he _understood _her, he often got the sense that he knew her as well as any person could. And when it came to Lisbeth Salander, that had to be good enough.

Blomkvist considered the way he felt when she left, following her trial and her declaration of competence. For weeks, he doted over her reasoning, still pitifully convinced that if he worked hard enough, he might be able to make sense of her motivation. It was this doting that would eventually push Monica Figuerola away. When he asked her for her opinion, she would always reply with a nod, or a shrug of indifference. Monica was done with Lisbeth the moment her ruling was final. It was understandable, in a sense. The case wasn't personal to her, as it was to Blomkvist.

It wasn't until one morning in early summer that she shared her true thoughts with him, as they ate breakfast together in Blomkvist's cabin in Sandhamm.

"Have you ever considered that she might be in love with you?" Monica suggested.

Blomkvist looked up at her then. "Who?" he asked.

"Lisbeth Salander," Monica said plainly. "I saw you online last night. You're leaving her messages, aren't you?" She didn't seem bitter, just resigned.

Blomkvist laughed around a bite of his bagel. "You _are_ a spy…" he teased. Then, sobering up, slightly he added, "There's no way Lisbeth is in love with me."

"Why not?" Monica asked, sipping her drink and looking contemplative in a way that always struck Blomkvist as mercilessly attractive.

"She's not like that." Blomkvist shook his head. "She's not the kind to fall in love."

Monica raised her eyebrows and looked back down at the book she was reading. "So you're saying she can kill, she can hide, she can save your life, she can catch her own rapist, and she can escape triple murder charges, but she's incapable of falling in love with someone?"

Blomkvist froze. The statement suddenly struck him as so absurd, he ran to the phone and called up his sister, who was the only person he knew still in regular correspondence with Lisbeth.

"I'm sorry," Annika had said, when Blomkvist told her about Monica's suggestion. "I'm not even supposed to _speak_ to you about Lisbeth without her consent. It's part of the confidentiality agreement."

"But do you think it's true?" Blomkvist asked. "Do you think it's realistic? Annika, _please. _Off the record, just tell me straight: do you think it's really possible she was in love with me?"

Annika sighed. "Mikael, you really have no clue the effect you have on women, do you?"

"So, you think that's what it is then? Is that why she's been avoiding me?" Blomkvist tried to suppress the note of excitement in his voice. If he could get to the root of the problem, then maybe he had a chance at fixing it.

"Mikael, I don't know why Lisbeth won't answer your emails. I don't know why she won't return your calls. I have a hard enough time getting through to her, myself. Have you ever stopped to consider that she might just be… _busy? _She's been a ward of the state since she was twelve years old. Now is her chance to make up for lost time. You know, do whatever she wants."

"Yes, but Annika, that's _all _she does. That's the thing about Lisbeth. You know it, and I know it. She's obstinate. She's stubborn. She's moody. She has no tolerance for other peoples rules… their plans… their agendas…" He shook his head. "She never once let the law hinder her freedom. Even when she was living under that bastard _Bjurman _she still managed to do what she wanted, when she wanted to. It's not as if she's finally been set free. Maybe legally, but speaking realistically, Lisbeth has never let anyone hold her back." He paused. "There has to be some other explanation."

"Listen," Annika breathed. "What you're saying is all true. I understand you're frustrated. But I told Lisbeth before, and now I'm telling you; I absolutely _refuse _to play go-between here. If you somehow manage to contact her, that's great. But aside from that, your relationship— or lack thereof— really cannot be any of my business. It's just not professional."

Blomkvist sighed in frustration. "That's not particularly helpful, you know," he said. "But I suppose I understand."

Sitting alone, listening to the train rattle over the tracks, Blomkvist wondered if there was any validity to what Monica said, so many months before. It certainly had the potential to explain a lot. Yet, if Monica's theory proved to be true, it painted a rather grim picture for the future.

No matter what, Blomkvist told himself, he was _not_ going to let things return to the way they were before coming to Hedestad.

No more silences. No more absences. He didn't want to return to life without Lisbeth Salander.

She was, indeed, a friend like no other.

When the train arrived in Litenstad, Blomkvist got directions to the café where he was meeting Tish. He walked briskly to the tiny establishment and ordered a drink before taking a seat in the corner and waiting.

Tish arrived a few moments later, her coat covered in snow.

"I nearly wrecked my car trying to get over here," she said, sliding into the booth, across from him. "The roads are treacherous. Did you drive?"

Blomkvist looked up at her and almost laughed. On the outside, the poor girl looked almost shell-shocked, but there was a resilient expression on her face, as if the snowy highways were her most despicable enemies.

"I took the train," he said.

The waiter came around and took Tish's order while Blomkvist lit a cigarette. Tish pulled one of her own from her bag.

"Do you have a light?" she asked.

Blomkvist nodded and lit her cigarette.

"This is a nasty habit, you know," he said, taking a drag. He glanced out the window. It truly was snowing hard now. "But I've found that this particular nasty habit is quite common amongst writers."

"A common vice," Tish amused. "Doesn't surprise me. We're all a bit high strung at times."

Blomkvist nodded. "That we are."

The waiter put Tish's drink down on the table.

"So how is Henrik Vanger's funeral?" Tish asked, crossing her arms. "It's getting quite a bit of press, you know."

"Is it?" Blomkvist asked, looking up. "That's news to me."

Tish nodded. "There are rumors, you know," she said. "About the… attendants." She paused. "I just thought I'd tip you off, so you can let her know. People will show up for the funeral. When they see her, she'll be the center of attention."

Blomkvist froze, a little taken aback. "Who do you mean?" he asked, slowly.

Tish raised her eyebrows and leaned in close. "Well, Lisbeth Salander, of course," she whispered.

"Shit."

Blomkvist looked away, rubbing his brow in exhaustion.

"Do you know who knows?"

Tish looked up, like she was thinking. _"She, Svenska-Morgen Press, EuroIdag…" _She ticked the names off on her fingers, then looked back at Blomkvist. "There has been a lot of talk on private forums."

"Fantastic," Blomkvist grumbled. "She'll love that."

Tish shrugged.

Blomkvist gave her a scrutinizing look. "So, is that why you're here, then?" he asked. "Because, if you're looking to speak to her, then I'm afraid that's highly unlike—"

"That's not why I'm here," TIsh said, cutting him off. "I was telling the truth in my emails. I really am here visiting my grandparents, and I really do just want to talk."

Blomkvist felt a sudden flush of embarrassment. "Wow. Sorry. I guess I've gotten a bit paranoid…" He ran a hand through his hair.

Tish laughed. "I think I'd be paranoid too, if I were you. What with all the hell you've been through recently." She rested her chin on her closed fist, her demeanor changing quickly to one of intrigue. "How is _Millennium?"_

"_Millennium?" _Blomkvist asked, strangely shocked by the change of subject. "Fine. It's fine." He waved her off. "The new issue should be out soon. Everything's running right on track." He felt as if he was simply echoing Erika's words instead of his own thoughts. In reality, he realized he had no idea how _Millennium _was doing. He was suddenly overcome by a paralyzing sense of guilt. He had abandoned his post. And yet, they went on.

"Should I expect any new material from you?" Tish asked, curiously.

Blomkvist bit his lip. "Let's hope so," he grumbled. "To be perfectly honest, I've been struggling with a bit of writer's block."

"Really?" Tish asked, curiously. "I thought I read something about _Millennium _covering some kind of scandal in the construction industry. Sounded fascinating to me."

Blomkvist frowned. "Who on Earth told you that?"

Tish shrugged and sat back in her seat. "Like I said," she muttered. "There is a lot of talk in private forums."

Blomkvist made a mental note to mention this conversation to Erika. She would certainly be interested to know that someone within the magazine was talking about their ideas pre-publication.

Blomkvist straightened up and turned his attention back to Tish.

"You said in your email that you wanted to talk about writing," he reminded her.

Tish sat up quickly. "Right, right," she breathed, rummaging around in her large, messenger back. "Actually, I was hoping you would take a look at something I wrote. Maybe you could give me a few pointers?" She handed Blomkvist a thin stack of papers. "I was hired to do a small, freelance project for local a magazine inUmeå. I'd love to hear your opinion."

Blomkvist looked down at the article in his hands. He nodded. "That sounds doable," he said. "Should I email you my thoughts?"

Tish beamed. "Absolutely," she said. "You know, your daughter was right; you truly are a fantastic writer," she said.

Blomkvist had almost forgotten Tish had any association with his daughter, whatsoever. There was an air of maturity about her that made her seem almost like a colleague, or someone who had been in the business for longer than she was letting on.

Blomkvist sat forward in his seat.

"Tell me," he began, hoping to direct the conversation away from his own writing, and compliments he didn't feel he deserved. "Where is your accent from? It's killing me."

Tish smiled. "St. Petersburg," she said. "I've lived here for several years. Never lost my accent, though."

"Well, it's very charming," Blomkvist said. "I wouldn't hurry to lose it. Do you visit St. Petersburg often?"

Tish looked down at the table and shook her head. "I moved here to live with my grandparents during my parent's divorce," she explained. "I was sixteen. I haven't been back since."

Blomkvist nodded. "I can't remember the last time I visited the place where I was born."

Tish gave a weak smile. "I guess sometimes that's just how it works out."

Blomkvist nodded again, and Tish immediately changed the subject, launching into a story about how she and Pernilla ended up lost on the way to submit her application for Umeå University. There was a charismatic quality about her, and Blomkvist found he could easily invasion her finding great success as a journalist. She seemed to have a keen interest in her surroundings, and she was a charmer in every sense. He hadn't read anything she had written, but Blomkvist got the sense that the article in his hands was going to be a treat. There was just something about her…

When they had finished their drinks, Blomkvist collected his things and prepared to leave.

"It was nice seeing you," he said. "Of course, tell Nilla I said hi."

"Of course," Tish laughed. She collected the garbage from the tabletop and walked to the trash while Blomkvist handled the bill. He had offered to pay. The coffee had been nice, and it was inexpensive enough.

When he turned to say goodbye, Blomkvist found Tish crouched over, picking something up off the ground. She frowned, squinting at something in her hands.

"Is this yours?" she asked, surprised. She held up the black glove Nordhamm had given him at the Vanger Estate that morning.

"Oh," Blomkvist said. "Yes. It is. Must have dropped it." He gave her a faint smile.

Tish laughed, looking at the glove in her hand. She examined it in fascination. "You've been to Litenstad Ryska Högstadieskola?" she asked. Then she looked up at him. "That's my alma-mater, you know."

Blomkvist frowned and looked down at the glove. Sure enough, there was a faint, gray, school crest visible on the outside that he hadn't noticed before.

_So it certainly didn't belong to Lisbeth._

"Actually, I've never been…" Blomkvist muttered. "I was… given this. By an acquaintance. He must have picked it up by mistake…"

Tish frowned. "Where did you say you found this?" she asked.

"Umm…" Blomkvist shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts. "Down by the lake, near the bridge in Hedestad."

"Hedestad?" Tish asked, taken aback. "Kind of a long walk for a student, don't you think?"

"So this belonged to a student?" Blomkvist asked.

Tish shrugged. "Or a teacher, I suppose." She looked at the glove a little more closely. "As students, we always wore these things around campus. It was freezing, and the central heating only worked half the time…" She laughed then. "I'll tell you this; whoever lost one glove is in for a long, cold, and uncomfortable day." She shook her head.

Blomkvist laughed in response and turned the glove over in his hand.

"Tish," he said, motioning for her to come closer. "What does this mean?" he pointed to a bit of white stitching near the seam of the glove. Tish took the glove from his hand and squinted at it, thoughtfully.

"It's Russian," she said. That must Blomkvist could tell. Then she shrugged. "I'm not sure what to tell you. It's just a series of letter." She handed the glove back to Blomkvist. "C-F-D. Could be someone's initials."

Blomkvist's heart pounded. _C-F-D. _Those were the letters from Nadia's playing card. And now here they were again, stitched into some student's glove, abandoned down by the river.

_Damn it, Lisbeth. What have you found?_

"Mikael," Tish said, catching Blomkvist's attention. "Is something wrong?" she asked. "You look a little… pale, or something." She gave him a concerned look.

"Me?" Blomkvist asked, a little taken aback. "Yes, yes. I'm fine." He tucked the glove in his pocket. "Sorry, I'm just… a bit confused."

Tish gave him a wry smile. "Not running around trying to solve mysteries again, are you?" she asked, teasingly.

Blomkvist raised his eyebrows, as they made their out the café and out into the snowy street. "I would tell you," he said, with a laugh. "But I don't want to read about what I'm up to in any local paper." He motioned at her article in his hand.

Tish's eyes lit up. "So you _are _trying to piece something together, then?" She grinned at him. "Kalle Blomkvist," she added, teasingly.

Blomkvist gave her a pained look.

They stopped in front of Tish's car.

"We should do this again," Tish said, crossing her arms, as if this was all some elaborate— alight charming— business exchange. "I much prefer receiving feedback in person." She nodded at her article.

"Of course. How long are you in town?" Blomkvist asked.

"Until the end of the month, actually," Tish said. "I'm on… extended leave." She smiled and looked down at her feet before meeting his eyes again.

"Have fun dealing with the Vangers," she said, sarcastically. "I've heard they're sort of a brutish bunch."

"Brutish is a kind word…" Blomkvist said. He looked down at his watch.

"Right, I forgot. You've got a train to catch." Tish shook her head. "Email me when you finish the article. We'll need to meet again."

"Of course. It was nice seeing you," Blomkvist said.

"Nice seeing you, too."

Tish climbed into her car, and Blomkvist turned around, walking across the street towards the train station. He made it less than five steps away when Tish's car slowed down beside him. She rolled down the window.

"Tell Lisbeth Salander I said hi," Tish said, with a laugh. "And good luck with your mystery."

Lisbeth Salander never minded waking up alone. In fact, she almost always felt that solitude was a preferable state of being. The morning of her third day in Hedestad was no exception.

Salander awoke at eleven-thirty and proceeded to follow her usual routine. She rolled out of bed, took a quick shower, made herself some coffee and a sandwich, and checked her email to find three new, rather intriguing messages from Plague. It was only when she sat down with her computer that the events of the night before finally struck her.

Salander decided rather quickly that she would have to walk down to the lake later that day. There was no avoiding it, and besides, she didn't want to. She had to work out exactly what happened and see if that kid was stupid enough to leave anything behind.

And then, of course, there was the situation with Blomkvist.

Salander chewed her thumbnail, contemplatively, as she gazed out the large window at the expansive view below.

Nothing had changed. Salander knew that for sure. She had made her decision. _No compromises_. If she wanted him, she wanted him. No sense in complicating it further.

Salander lit a cigarette and decided not to question her sudden sense of contentment. The task felt too tedious and daunting when all she_ really_ wanted to do at the moment was get back to solving the puzzle at hand.

The first email from Plague contained the background check on Julien Ivansson.

Julien Bjørn Ivansson was born in West Kristiansand, Norway in 1991. He was the first born, and only son of Bjørn and Sofia Ivansson. Nadia was his only sibling.

For the most part, Julien's record was clean. Plague had been thorough; uncovering everything from his first job as a pizza delivery boy in Kristiansand, to the police report detailing his brief arrest for the unlicensed distribution of MDMA at a gay club in Alesand in 2007. Salander made sure to keep this in mind, but she ruled it out as anythingimmediately incriminating. After all, she, herself, had undergone several stints with the law as a teenager, all of which dealt with either narcotics or public drunkenness. It wasn't a big deal, as far as she was concerned.

In 2008 Julien Ivarsson had enrolled in University of Agder where he was studied contemporary art under a Professor Ingmar Bjørlo. Julien was supposedly bisexual, and had maintained a long-distance relationship with a woman named Larissa Mikhailovich who frequently traveled back and fourth between Norway and Sweden to see family and attend school. Julien and Mikhailovich ended their relationship in Spring of 2008. Shortly thereafter, Julien became involved with his classmate, Ingmar Nodhamm. They moved in together two months before Julien's parents were killed in a shooting at a West Kristiansand supermarket. After the funeral, Julien and Nordhamm applied for custody of Nadia, but due to their low-income, and Julien's arrest record, their request was denied.

Salander lit a cigarette. She was impressed. Plague had certainly dug up a lot of dirt. He was a good researcher. Not as good as she was, though…

Lisbeth squinted at the screen and reminded herself to due her _own _background check later on.

Ingmar Nodhamm's story painted a very different picture. Born and raised in Alesand, he had left home at sixteen when he father rejected his sexuality. He maintained a good relationship with his mother, who he met with once or twice a month over coffee.

Nordhamm worked as a bartender at a gay club in North Kristiansand while he studied art at University of Agder. He had a history of clinical depression, and was admitted to a hospital a hospital in 2009 after attempting suicide. This all occurred only shortly after he met Julien.

Since leaving the hospital, Nordhamm had resumed his job as bartender, as well as his studies at University of Agder. He currently lived with Julien Ivarsson in West Kristiansand, Norway, where he saw a shrink twice a week to help with his recovery. All signs indicated that he was now stable, with the help of a lot of prescription medication.

Nadia Ivansson did not have much of a record, as she was so young. She had studied at a high school in West Kristiansand up until her parent's death. Her grades were high. Her test scores were average. She took art classes outside of school, and had once shown a couple of sculptures at a gallery in Floro. When asked who she wanted to live with, following her parent's death, Nadia had asked to stay with her brother and Nordhamm. Her request was also denied.

Salander logged onto Hacker Republic and transferred 10000 kroner into Plague's account. Then she closed her laptop and carried it out into the hallway. She hoped Henrik Vanger's office was open. She wanted to have another look at those cards.

Sure enough, Salander found Henrik's office unlocked. However, when she pushed the door aside, she discovered she was not alone.

Nadia Ivansson jumped when she saw the door swing aside. Salander froze in the response. They stared at each other, wide-eyed.

"Harriet asked if I would bring her a copy of Henrik's will," Nadia blurted out. These were the first words she had spoken to Salander. Her voice wavered in fear. "She said I would find it up here."

_Why the hell was she so afraid?_

Salander tried to look as casual as possible.

"I need to use the printer," she lied, pointing at the slightly-outdated Epson in the corner of Henrik's office. She toted her laptop over to the old machine and started to hook it up. Business as usual.

At first there was a silence. Then, surprisingly, Nadia spoke up.

"You're here with Herr Blomkvist, aren't you?"

Salander's spine went rigid.

"Actually, we're here separately," she said, thrown off by the insinuation of Nadia's words.

"But you know each other?" Nadia asked, timidly.

Salander nodded, yes.

Nadia bit her lip, and looked away, seemingly torn. Finally, she turned her gaze back to Salander.

"Are you the one Henrik used to watch on the news?" she asked.

Salander looked up at her and frowned.

"Here…" Nadia breathed. She crossed the study and pointed to a tiny television on the opposite wall. "Sometimes, when I would come to visit he would leave the news on. I didn't know any Swedish back then, but I swear I recognize you."

Salander shook her head, and looked away. Typical fucking Vanger behavior. Snooping around her business. Watching her on fucking daytime television to get the slanderous details. She repressed a scowl for Nadia's sake, though she wasn't entirely convinced any of these newcomers were exempt from the Vanger family charm.

Nadia looked conflicted. She opened her mouth to say something, but was immediately distracted by the door clattering open once again.

"Nadia?" Harriet Vanger called, softly. "Are you—?"

Harriet froze, staring straight at Lisbeth Salander, a confused expression on her face. "Oh," she said, sounding surprised. Salander watched her survey the room, an almost cautious air about her as she did so. She made brief eye contact with her cousin, from which she was able to quickly deduce that there was no trouble afoot. Once that much was established, Harriet gave a pleasant smile.

"Good morning Froken Salander," Harriet said. "I just sent Nadia up here to grab a copy of my uncle's will."

Nadia cleared her throat. _"She_ came to use the printer," she grumbled, under her breath. Her gaze quickly flickered over to Lisbeth, and then back at Harriet again. "I let her in," she said.

Salander frowned slightly. Why was this girl lying for her?

Harriet gave them both a tight-lipped smile. "That's fine," she said, still seemingly surprised, but not at all hostile. "Did you invite Froken Salander to come have breakfast with the rest of us?" Harriet placed a hand on Nadia's shoulder, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Then she turned to Lisbeth. "We have food downstairs, if you're hungry."

Salander looked away, immediately uncomfortable.

"I have to leave," she said. She forced herself to add a grumbled, "Sorry."

"That's fine," Harriet said again. She crossed the room and pulled back the curtains, pausing for a moment to admire Henrik's telescope. She looked back and Salander and bit her lip, seemingly conflicted.

"Mikael said you were good with math…" she began, slowly.

Salander's looked away, unresponsive.

"Do these numbers have any significance?" Harriet held out a sheet of paper. "Are they part of any… algorithm or… mathematic equation? I mean, that you know of."

Salander took the paper and studied it closely. She frowned. This was the same set of numbers Blomkvist told her about the day before.

"They're coordinates," Salander said, pointing out the window. "Longitude and latitude."

Harriet frowned and squinted at the string of numbers.

"Where could they be pointing?" she wondered aloud.

"Isabella's porch," Salander said.

Harriet and Nadia both turned to look at her, equally curious expressions on their faces.

"How on Earth did you know that?" Harriet asked, intrigued.

Salander shrugged. "I'm good with numbers," she said. Then— seeing a small window of opportunity— she turned and slunk out of the room as quickly as she could. As she headed down the hall, she found herself thinking; for an estate so vast, it certainly felt like there were far too many uncomfortable run-ins between houseguests.

Salander dropped her laptop off in the guest quarters and decided it was time to get out of the house for a while. She fumbled around for a bit, searching for her coat. Then, having found it, she left for the lake.

Once outside, Salander lit a cigarette and stood on the front steps of the Vanger Estate for several minutes, trying to work out exactly which path she had taken to the shore the night before. At some point, she had veered off into the woods, but in the dark, the roadside looked the same everywhere. After a few moments of pondering, Salander ventured off the porch and walked along the edge of the woods for several minutes, searching for footprints to no avail. Five minutes into her exploration, she heard the sound of footsteps coming up behind her and froze, half-expecting to turn around and see the kid, or the bastard who tried to drown her the night before.

Instead, Salander found Nadia Ivarsson stood in the middle of the road, looking particularly pitiful. Her large blue eyes blinked rapidly. Her teeth chattered. She was completely underdressed, as if she had chased Salander out here, without a second thought. Salander frowned. She had little time, and even less sympathy to spare. There was work to be done here, and no time for games.

She was about to turn away, when Nadia finally spoke up.

"You're _Lisbeth Salander,_ aren't you? You're the one who found Harriet. With Herr Blomkvist."

Nadia looked more terrified than ever. Salander glanced away. She didn't respond.

"It _was _you, wasn't it?"

Salander gave the tiniest of nods, unsure of where this was going, and greatly opposed to uncertainty of any kind.

"You solve mysteries?" Nadia asked. Her voice was full of cloying expectation. Salander wanted nothing more than to get away as quickly as possible.

"I know you know about the cards."

Salander's eyes lit up.

Nadia gave a faint smile.

"I knew it," she breathed. "I knew you would piece it together."

"I haven't pieced anything together," Salander said, coolly. "I _can't."_

Nadia's face fell. "What do you mean?" she demanded.

"Whatever code you've written in is useless. It's unintelligible. It's impossible to read, even for me. If I haven't figured it out by now…" Salander trailed off, shrugging. This was untrue, of course. Salander knew with a certain degree of certainty, that if she worked hard enough, she could crack the code herself. Still, it was much easier to simply skip that step and acquire the necessary information here and now.

Nadia's eyes burned. "I can't possibly be any more forward with you," she said. "The code isn't hard. Once you work it out, you'll know."

"Know _what?"_ Salander asked, her eyes narrowing.

Nadia looked around herself and backpedaled a few steps.

"Larissa Mikhailovich," she hissed, backing away further. "Look her up. You'll figure it out. It's not hard. I promise."

"This isn't a game," Salander said, suddenly. Someone had almost killed her the night before. She was in no mood to waste time following dead-end leads provided by indecisive little girls.

"I'm not playing," Nadia said, her voice eerily calm. "Please," she said. "This is important."

"Then why not explain it to me?" Salander asked.

"I _can't,"_ Nadia said, looked away in shame. "I can't. It's too dangerous." She backed away further. "Larissa Mikhailovich," she said. "That's all I can say right now." She turned, then, and ran back to the house.

Frustrated, Salander pulled out her mobile and sent a quick email to Plague.

_Need quick info on "Larissa Mikhailovich," ex-girlfriend of Julien Ivarsson. Will pay ASAP._

_-Wasp _

She stood stalk-still then and wondered when the hell Blomkvist was getting back, and if she should mention any of this right away, or follow up on her own first. It had been so long since she had worked with anyone else on anything. It felt so strange.

Salander's mobile rang a moment later, letting her know she had a new instant message. Plague had been quick this time. That was good.

She opened the message and skimmed it quickly.

_Larissa Mikhailovich. Born June twelfth 1991 in Stockholm, Sweden. Alumni of Litenstad __Ryska__ Högstadieskola. Not much info available online. She was a professional poker player for three years. Recently quit. _

_-Plague_

Salander paused.

_Professional poker? _she typed, hoping she could prompt him to elaborate further.

_Mikhailovich was part of a poker league in high school. She made a living playing. Apparently, she was something of a Goddess when it came to the game. She killed her competition. That's how she got her nickname, 'Den Drapsmann.' That's Norwegian for _'The Killer.' _Looks like she traveled back and fourth quite a bit for competitions in high school and college. She played a lot of contests in West Kristiansand. That's probably where she met your guy, Ivarsson. _

— _Plague_

_Probably, _Salander replied. Then she frowning, thinking. _Did she have any help?_

_What? Do you mean cheating? – Plague_

_No, _Salander typed. _I mean did she have friends who played with her? Was she part of a team? _

There was a short delay before Plague finally sent her a response.

_Litenstad __Ryska__ Högstadieskola is tiny. They only have about 100 students enrolled every year. From the looks of their activity register, everyone must have played at one point or another. Mikhailovich wasn't particularly unique, just particularly good. – Plague_

_So there were no other good players? _Salander asked.

_According to the school webpage. The year Mikhailovich graduated, the top players where herself, and three others. Abezgauz, Iavlenskaia, and Solovyov. – Plague_

Salander froze, recalling the name of Blomkvist's daughter's roommate.

_Who is Solovyov? _she asked. _First name? _

_Tish Solovyov. Born in St. Petersburg 1991. Enrolled in Umeå University now. Living outside of Stockholm. – Plague. _

Salander shook her head in disbelief, and typed up a quick thank you. She quick the instant messaging application on her mobile, and went to call Blomkvist. 


	10. Absence

**Authors Note/Edit: Hello again! Just wanted to take a quick moment to thank users "bhj" and "Erik" for bringing a couple of inconsistencies to my attention. You comments have not gone unnoticed! I will do my best to correct and/or explain these oversights in coming chapters. However, regarding my mistake concerning Isabella Vanger... Unfortunately, I believe it is a bit late to go back and change that now. Thank you again for bringing these things to my attention, and I hope you all enjoy the story, regardless. :)  
><strong>

**~TruthIsOutThere  
><strong>

Blomkvist returned to Hedestad to find Salander perched on the foot of her bed, typing frantically on her Macbook. She hardly acknowledged his presence as he crossed the threshold, though her eyes grew narrow as she stared at the screen. Whatever she was working on clearly required her full attention.

Blomkvist shrugged out of his coat and strode over to her side. He put his glasses on and squinted at her computer screen, trying to make sense of whatever it was she was working on. He was still having trouble processing the information she gave him over the phone. Something about playing cards, and poker? None of it made sense, in his mind. Things were made even more confusing when Salander brought up the name Tish Solovyov. Of course, it made perfect sense now that he thought about it. Salander probably knew more about Tish than Blomkvist could ever learn from a thirty-minute meeting at a café. She was a brilliant hacker who had devoted several years of her life to running extensive background-checks on some of the most prominent and powerful people in all of Sweden. Finding out information was easy for Salander, and it frequently came in handy for her, as well.

Of course, this brought along it's own set of irritations. For instance, there were periods of time— like now— when Blomkvist _knew _something was up, and felt hopelessly out of the loop. It was borderline infuriating, especially given the fact that normally, as a journalist, it was _his _job to dig up details.

Salander closed her laptop and climbed off of the bed.

"Well?" Blomkvist asked, unusually uptight. He followed her out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. "Have you found anything?" In all honesty, he still wasn't entirely sure what she was meant to be looking for, but something about this entire situation just set him on edge.

Salander gave him a hard look. Blomkvist knew full-well that she preferred to work uninterrupted. She absolutely loathed being grilled for information. The way she saw it, her work was her business. Blomkvist was simply too nervous to tolerate that now.

"Listen," he began, running a hand through his hair. "Tish Solovyov is my daughter's flat mate." He shook his head, feeling increasingly distraught. "If she's involved in something bad, you have to give me a chance to warn Pernilla. You have to let me know."

Salander looked up at him again. Something had changed in her gaze. She remained rigid, and straight-faced as always, but there was a touch of acceptance in her expression, as if prying into her work out of concern for his own daughter was a forgivable offense. "Solovyov played poker with Larissa Mikhailovich in high school," Salander said, preparing two open sandwiches for herself. She looked up at Blomkvist for a split second, then down again. "Nadia Ivansson told me to look into Mikhailovich. That's all I know." She shrugged.

"Well…" Blomkvist breathed. "I guess there's no sure cause for alarm, then?" he asked, more to himself than to Salander. Nevertheless, she shrugged again and carried her plate of food out into the sitting room. She reached for her laptop, and resumed her work.

There was a long silence. Blomkvist's mind was still racing.

"What's your email password?" Salander asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Blomkvist stared at her, taken aback.

"You have to ask?" he wondered, busying himself by reheating a cup of coffee.

"No," Salander said, flatly. "I don't have to ask." She looked back down at her computer screen.

Blomkvist realized too late that this was Salander's best attempt at courtesy. She was trying to be conscious. He gave her the password straight away, though he knew she had already cracked it on her own.

"What are you doing?" Blomkvist asked, peering over her shoulder. She was composing a message as he spoke. "Are you sending something?" He rubbed his brow, feeling too exhausted to keep up with any of this.

"You'll need to meet Tish Solovyov again," Salander explained. "She trusts you. You can ask questions."

"Wait." Blomkvist reached out and closed the laptop, causing Salander to jolt backwards in surprise. She gave him an annoyed look.

"Say Tish _is _involved in something," Blomkvist says. "If she knows we're on to her, we're done for."

Salander reopened her laptop. She chewed on her thumb and stared contemplatively at the open email document.

"What exactly did Nadia tell you again?" Blomkvist asked, pacing the room. "Start at the beginning."

It took a while for Salander to answer.

"Nadia told me to research a Larissa Mikhailovich," she said, for what felt like the millionth time that evening. "I couldn't find much, except that she was a poker player, and she knew your _friend."_ Salander raised her eyebrows, and almost leered at the term. She opened a new document and began typing up a string of code Blomkvist couldn't even begin to decipher.

"We won't know anything about Mikhailovich unless we talk to people who know her," Salander said.

"Couldn't we just speak to her directly?" Blomkvist offered. "I mean, how hard could she be to find?"

Salander shook her head. "Hard," she said. "She has no address listed. She's not in registry, because she's not a Swedish citizen. I _could_ find her, but it would take too much time."

"So she's hidden?" Blomkvist asked, feeling nervous again.

"She's covered her tracks," Salander said, staring intently at the screen.

"I can't ask Tish anything now," Blomkvist said. "It's too risky. We don't even know if this woman has done anything illegal, for Christ's sake! She's got a fourteen-year-old girl riled up. That can't take much!" Rationally, Blomkvist knew his excuses were pointless. Still, he could never bring himself to put his daughter at risk. Not for this case, and not for anything.

Thankfully, Salander seemed to understand. She nodded slowly, as if in agreement.

"You told me Mikhailovich was traveling all around Scandinavia playing tournaments in high school," Blomkvist recounted, hoping to make sense of this out loud. "She spent a lot of time in Norway. That's where she probably met Julien Ivansson, which is probablyhow she knowns Nadia." He let out a long sigh. "So what now? You say Nadia's not talking," he grumbled. "What about Julien? Maybe he knows what the hell is going on here."

Salander shook her head, and lit a cigarette. "Julien Ivansson is completely oblivious to all of this."

"How do you know?" Blomkvist asked.

"I overheard him at Susanne's the other night, when he first arrived," she explained. "He was as confused by the whole card phenomenon as anyone else."

"He could have been lying," Blomkvist argued.

"Maybe," Salander said, eyes still locked on her computer screen. "But I don't think so."

"So what's going on here, Lisbeth?" Blomkvist asked, alarmed. "Why is girl in a panic, and what does it have to do with my daughter's flat mate, or this… _Mikhailovich, _for that matter?" he demanded. "It doesn't add up!" Blomkvist couldn't shake his sense of terror. This entire case was far too close to home. It reminded him of his early days at _Millennium, _when he had focused primarily on political exposés. He remembered vividly, the feeling of being victimized by his own work. Back then, he received more hate mail than support. He always had to watch his back. Now here he was again, on the verge of reentering that same predicament. Only this time it was Pernilla he had to worry about.

Salander whipped her head around, as if she were about to tell him off for bothering her— she probably was. The moment she gauged the look of true disparity on his face, though, her hard scowl transformed into a sort of unreadable frown.

"Tell Pernilla to leave home if you're so worried," she said, turning back to her computer. "Pay for her to go on vacation."

"And tell her what?" Blomkvist asked, frustrated.

"Make up something," Salander spat. "You're a writer. Tell a story."

"I'm a journalist. I'm meant to tell the _truth," _Blomkvist argued.

"Then do it," Salander muttered. "If getting your daughter out of Umeå is what it takes to give you peace of mind so you can speak to Solovyov, _do it. Expose _the truth."

Blomkvist nodded slowly, leaning on the back of the couch for support.

"You're right…" he breathed. "She can't stay where she is. This is all too suspicious."

"So call her." Salander pointed at his mobile, resting beside her left foot, on the coffee table.

"She'll be at school now," Blomkvist sighed. "I'll call her tonight. Then I'll send Tish an email. I'll let her know we need to meet again." He tried his best to calm himself, though nothing seemed to be working.

Salander let her head loll back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling.

"What am I supposed to do until then?" she asked, bordely.

"I guess we just wait," Blomkvist replied.

Salander picked her head up, glanced at Blomkvist, took a long drag on her cigarette, and offered it to him. When he declined, she stood up abruptly, and tugged her t-shirt off, casting it aside. Blomkvist watched in surprise as she crossed the room, moving towards him. He didn't protest as she led him into the bedroom. Frankly, this came as a welcome distraction.

Once they found themselves in bed, something unusual caught Blomkvist's attention. He reached and tentatively touched Salander's hair.

"What are you doing?" she asked, pulling away.

Blomkvist held up a tiny leaf. He gave her a faint smile, as she tugged her jeans off.

"Did you go for a walk recently?" he asked.

Salander frowned. "No."

Blomkvist shrugged as she crawled into bed next to him. She kissed him once, but his mind was still racing.

"You never did tell me what happened to you last night," he said, when they broke apart for only a split second. Salander hardly seemed interested in recounting the tale. She kissed him again and pushed him down against the mattress.

"Later," she grumbled, preoccupied.

At five 'o' clock, Blomkvist got out of bed to call his daughter.

"Want anything?" he asked, gazing at Salander who lay resting, entangled in the bed sheets.

"Got a light?" she asked, holding an unlit cigarette between her lips. Blomkvist nodded and retrieved his lighter from the pocket of his discarded jacket. He lit her up quickly and left the room, closing the door behind him to seal off the noise.

It occurred to him then that he had absolutely no idea how to go about this. This was the burden of being an inactive parent. He kicked himself for it every day. Speaking to Pernilla was odd enough as it was, but that just felt like too much.

Blomkvist shook his head and dialed his daughter's number. Part of him hoped he would reach only her voicemail. At this point, it would be much easier to explain the situation to a machine. Of course, nothing could be answered after the third ring.

"Hello?" Blomkvist found the sound of her voice simultaneously daunting and reassuring as he wracked his brains for some kind of explanation.

"Nilla, hi," he began.

"Dad?" She sounded surprised. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Blomkvist said, pacing the length of the sitting room. "Everything's fine. How are you?"

"How am I?" Pernilla asked. "Dad, you never call. I always thought you preferred email." She laughed.

"I— I do," Blomkvist said, quickly. "It's just…" He paused, trying desperately to think of the best way to phrase this. A loud noise distracted him.

"Pernilla, where are you exactly?"

"I'm on the subway. On my way home from school," Pernilla said. "Dad, is there something wrong?" she asked, again.

"Uh. No, no," Blomkvist muttered. "I just needed to talk to you about something."

"Okay, so talk," she laughed. "You're scaring me. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Me? I'm fine," Blomkvist said. "Listen, something's come up with… _work." _He cast a glance out the large bay window. "It's nothing you need to worry about but—"

"— But what?" Pernilla asked, cutting him off.

"Nilla, do you remember when you were young, and I wrote politics pieces for _Millennium?"_

"Of course I do," Pernilla laughed. "I showed some of them to Tish, actually. She told me the two of you met. It was really nice of you to agree to read her article."

"Yes. It was no trouble," Blomkvist breathed. "It was good seeing her." He shook his head. "Anyway, do you remember when the articles used to come out… how we would sometimes… tighten security around the house?" He struggled to find the right words. "Remember when your mother and I blew all of our savings on that security system?" He shook his head again. "How could you remember? You were no more than two years old."

"Dad…" Pernilla began, apprehensive. "What is this about?"

Blomkvist cleared his throat, and ran a hand through his hair.

"I think it might be best if you leave town for a few days, Nilla," he said, as gently as possible. "There's nothing to be alarmed about, its just… work has become very serious, all of a sudden."

"What do you mean?" Pernilla sounded concerned. "Dad, what are you talking about? What are you _writing?"_

_Writing? _Blomkvist almost laughed aloud. Nilla thought he was _writing _something, for _Millennium. _If only! She really didn't know the first of it.

"It's nothing too dramatic, I promise," Blomkvist said. "I just don't want anything I say being traced back to you."

Pernilla went silent.

"Have you talked to mom?" she asked.

"About you leaving town? No. I would pay for it of course." Blomkvist rubbed his temples.

"But is she in danger?" Pernilla asked. "If whoever-you're-writing-about can find your daughter, surely they can find your ex-wife as well."

Blomkvist sighed. Nilla always was remarkably pragmatic. She had no option but to be a realist for the most part. This was something she had inherited from _both_ of her parents.

"I don't think these people are interested in bothering your mother," Blomkvist said. "This isn't that kind of group."

"So you're saying I'm the target?" Pernilla asked. "Only me?"

Blomkvist immediately regretted failing to come up with a proper alibi beforehand. If only he had some kind of cover story to feed her. A mock-article, or _something. _Pernilla was smart. Blomkvist knew he couldn't fool her for long. Eventually she'd see through the bullshit, and he'd be forced to explain the _real _reason he wanted her out of town.

_Your flat mate is possibly involved in something suspicious. I don't know what, but I want to find out. And I don't want you falling victim to my search. _That would not go over well. He had to get her out of Umeå.

On the other hand, he didn't want to alarm her.

"Listen, Nilla, there's nothing to be afraid of," he began. "I just want to play it safe. Just this once, promise me you'll get out of town. Go home and pack your things. Take a vacation."

"I'm in school, dad. I can't just drop everything," Pernilla pointed out.

"This time you can," Blomkvist said, sternly. This time, it was worth it.

There was a long silence.

"Dad, are you in trouble?" Pernilla asked, her voice was almost fearful. Blomkvist felt a stab of sympathy for his daughter.

"No, Nilla," he said. Then he shook his head. He didn't want to be a liar. "I'm not really sure."

"Does this have something to do with _her?"_ Pernilla asked.

"Who?"

_"Lisbeth Salander," _Pernilla hissed. Blomkvist's eyes snapped open.

"It's all over the papers, you know," Nilla said, sounding resigned. "It's been a slow news week. There is a lot of intrigue. People want to know why she's in Hedeby. Please don't get in over your head, dad." There was genuine concern in her voice. "Every time you get involved in once of her cases, things get dangerous. Too dangerous. I worry."

Blomkvist felt overwhelmingly guilty. Fathers, he thought, were not meant to scare their daughter's with their jobs.

"This has nothing to do with Lisbeth," he said, which was mostly true. "This is something different entirely."

"But it's still dangerous," Pernilla said.

"Maybe," Blomkvist admitted.

"Maybe," Nilla repeated.

There was a short silence.

"Listen, all I need is for you to leave town. Just for a few days," Blomkvist said, his voice almost pleading. "I won't be able to sleep at night unless I know you've removed yourself from all of this."

"What is _all of this, _exactly?" Nilla asked. "What are you looking into, dad?"

Blomkvist bit his lip, conflicted. "I can't say," he muttered, finally. "Just promise me you won't stay in Umeå. I'll wire you some money. You can go wherever you'd like. Leave the country if you want to. Go someplace warm."

Pernilla paused. "What will I tell mom?" she asked, hesitantly.

"Tell her you need a mental health break," Blomkvist said. He knew this was a poor answer. Monica Abrahamsson was not one for excuses. She would not sit by quietly while her daughter skipped town.

"I'll— I'll talk to her," he stammered, mentally adding this new task to his to-do list.

Pernilla sighed.

"I'll leave if you want me to," she said, finally. She didn't sound happy, but Blomkvist couldn't help but feel immensely relieved. "But dad?" she asked.

"Hm?"

"Don't get hurt," she said. There was a strong, commanding quality to her voice, and Blomkvist knew this was not a request, but an order.

Salander could hear Blomkvist speaking softly into the telephone as she headed for the shower. Tonight, though, she had no interest in eavesdropping. She closed the bathroom door behind her and turned the shower on high, checking the windowsill for any kind of message. Nothing tonight. Salander frowned, realizing Nadia probably wouldn't leave any more cards now that she had been confronted. She would have to figure this out on her own. And she would start with Larissa Mikhailovich.

As the steam rose around her, Salander thought back to the very first clue she had received— the card inside Nadia Ivansson's red glove. She recalled the letters, keeping a weary eye on the window the entire time, just in case. _C-F-D-K-E-K-W-J-J. _The code seemed pointless to her, but Nadia was insistent, so it had to mean something.

Salander tried to recall anything that may have given Nadia away. She thought back to the telescope in Henrik Vanger's office. The coordinates left it pointing right at Isabella's doorstep. She never could figure out why, but suddenly, it was clear to her.

_Henrik was on to her, too, _Salander realized. His desk was full of playing cards, just like the Nadia's— probably just like the one's Larissa Mikhailovich used to play poker.

Salander shut off the water. She wrapped a towel around her torso and dried herself before dressing hastily. She suddenly felt the strong urge to search through Henrik office once again. This was the right move. She was confident.

_ Fucking Vangers, _she thought, shaking her head. _Always knowing more than they let on…_

Salander slipped out into the sitting room, just as Blomkvist hung up the phone. She headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Blomkvist asked, looking a little alarmed.

Salander didn't feel compelled to stay and chat. She pulled the door closed behind her, and headed for Henrik's study, down the hall.

Inside, the study, the lights were out, and the shades were drawn. Even in complete dark, Salander could tell someone had already beaten her to this place. Every piece of furniture stood out in stark contrast, covered in an oversized, white sheet. When she finally found the light switch, Salander paced over to the desk and tugged at the drawer where she had seen the cards. It was empty. Someone had cleared this place out, completely.

Salander swore under her breath. She surveyed the room once more, this time in the light. Almost everything had been removed from the room. Henrik's telescope was gone, as was his computer. Salander searched through the four remaining desk drawers, and found nothing. She left the room quickly and headed downstairs to find Anna.

The ground floor of the Vanger Estate was unsettlingly quiet. Salander had little faith in silence, especially here. She recalled the soundless depths of Martin Vanger's basement, where she had freed Blomkvist the last time they came up here. She kept her eyes open as she wandered into the next room.

Salander found Anna in the kitchen, hunched over the sink as she scrubbed at a glass vase. She paused momentarily in the doorway, watching the woman clean in a state close to frenzy.

"Where are Henrik's things?" Salander asked, making Anna jump.

The woman stared at her, wide-eyed, barely clinging to the vase in her trembling hands.

"Günnar moved them out to the guest house this morning," she said, her voice hardly audible. "Harriet said something about clearing the space before the funeral…"

Salander glanced out the window at the rapidly darkening sky. She still had time to run out to the guesthouse, but this time she was not going unarmed. She turned her attention back to Anna.

"Have you ever heard the name Larissa Mikhailovich?" she asked.

Anna opened her mouth slightly, then shook her head.

"I— I don't know who that is."

Salander narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," Anna said. "Henrik didn't always speak to me about his acquaintances. He could be a very private man when he wanted to be."

Salander nodded. She was about to leave when Anna spoke up again.

"Froken Salander?" she asked. "You should talk to Julien Ivansson. Larissa Mikhailovich… It sounds like a Russian name." She nodded frantically, and Salander got the impression that she was absolutely terrified of something. But what?

"Why is that important?" Salander asked.

"Julien…" Anna cleared her throat, and glanced around, as if she was afraid of being overhead. "Julien worked at a Russian establishment in Norway. Some kind of… casino, or something. It could be completely irrelevant. I don't know." She gave a nervous shrug. "But if this is somehow connected to Henrik, it might be connected to him. They wrote back and fourth constantly, you know." Salander raised her eyebrows. She did _not _know this.

"Henrik was worried sick about Nadia," Anna continued. "He and Julien bonded over that. They became very close friends." She lowered her voice. "Between you and, I think Henrik was worried for Julien too. Sometimes he'd say things…" she trailed off, looking away.

"What kind of things?" Salander pressed.

Anna waved her off. "Probably nothing," she said. "He was on so many painkillers at the time, nothing he said was particularly coherent."

"But he said something about Julien Ivansson," Salander said.

"Oh, he said lots of things."

"Like what?"

Anna gazed out the window, skillfully avoiding Salander's gaze. "Probably nothing," she repeated, quietly. Then she spoke up again. "Talk to Julien, Froken Salander. I don't know him well, but you might find him useful."

Salander opened her mouth to say more, but Anna gave her a forlorn look.

"I have to get back to work," Anna said, quietly. "I'm sorry I can't help you any further."

Salander watched as the woman went back to cleaning vases over the sink. She paused for a moment, and then walked back upstairs to get her taser, and leave.

Up in the guest quarters, Salander found Blomkvist sitting beside the window, smoking and typing something up on his laptop.

"Where did you run off to?" he asked, when she walked in.

"I spoke to Anna," Salander grumbled, rummaging through her things. She found her taser, tested the charge, and tucked it in her back pocket.

"Going out?" Blomkvist asked.

Salander glared at him, put off by his inquisition. He held up his hands in surrender.

"I'm going down to the guest house," Salander said. "Some things of Henrik's are locked up there."

"And you think they'll be helpful in figuring this out?" Blomkvist took a sip out of his coffee mug.

"Maybe." Salander shrugged, putting on her coat. "Maybe not."

Blomkvist stubbed out his cigarette and set his laptop aside.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, his tone surprisingly pleasant. "I just booked Pernilla's ticket to France, and now I think I could stand to stretch my legs for a bit."

Salander shrugged— her version of an okay. She lit her a cigarette and gazed out the window while she waited for him to find his jacket.

"Oh Lisbeth?" Blomkvist called, reemerging from his bedroom, coat in hand. "I forgot to show you this. I found it this morning by the lake."

Salander spun to face him, her curiosity piqued.

"It's a glove," Blomkvist began. "At first, I actually thought it belonged to you, but then…" He turned the glove over in his hand, exposing a faint crest of some sort.

"I showed this to Tish Solovyov," he explained. "She recognized the emblem. She says it came from a local high school."

"A high school?" Salander repeated, confused. She held the glove up to the light, examining it.

"Yes. A school in Litenstad. _Litenstad __Ryska__ Högstadieskola _or something. Strangely enough, it's actually her alma mater."

Salander stared at him, astonished.

"Why didn't you mention before?"

Blomkvist shrugged. "I wrote it off as coincidence, and then I forgot," he said. "Listen, Lisbeth, it's probably meaningless. It's a faded, old glove I found down by the lake. It could have been there for _years, _for all I know!"

Salander was already distracted by another oddity.

"What's this?" she asked, pointing to some kind of bizarre stitching along the seam.

"It's Russian," Blomkvist said. "Tish told me what it meant. It's some kind of initialism. _C-F-D, _maybe?"

"It's not _C-F-D, _its _S-F-D," _Salander corrected.

"I'm sure Tish said _C-F-D," _Blomkvist pressed.

"Then she played you," Salander snapped. "There is no _'C' _in the Cyrillic alphabet. _This—" _she jabbed her finger at the first symbol. "— Is an _'S'."_

Blomkvist's eyes went wide. "Why would she lie about that?"

"She's covering her tracks, too," Salander said, shaking her head. "She doesn't want you to know something. If Tish went to school here, so did Mikhailovich. There's some kind of connection, we're just not seeing it!"

"Yes, but what does _S-F-D mean?"_ Blomkvist asked. "We still have no idea what we're looking for."

"Could be initials," Salander offered.

"Tish suggested that," Blomkvist said.

"Then it's probably _not _initials," Salander said, giving him a thoughtful look. "She's trying to lead us away from piecing this together. And she's not a good liar, apparently."

Blomkvist reached back into his coat pocket and retrieved a small stack of paper.

"She gave this to me," he said, before adding, "Tish Solovyov," for clarity.

"What is it?" Salander asked.

"It's an article she wrote," he explained. "I haven't read it yet. But it could mean something."

Salander eyed the paper quickly.

"Let me see it when you're done," she said. She glanced out the window again. "We're running out of light," she said. "I'm leaving." She zipped up her coat. "

Blomkvist nodded in agreement, and went to set his things down on the coffee table.

"Wait," Salander said. She picked up the glove and tucked it in her own pocket. "Someone's going around snatching up evidence." She frowned. "It's probably a bad idea to let this out of your sight."

"So you definitely think it means something, then?" Blomkvist asked. "The glove, I mean."

"I know it means something," Salander said, under her breath.

"How?" Blomkvist pressed.

Salander gave him a look as they made their way down the stairs and into the foyer.

"Last night a teenage boy tried to drown me down by the lake," she explained. "I didn't get a good look at what he was wearing," she said. "But I bet you anything he's a student of _Litenstad __Ryska__ Högstadieskola. _I bet you anything that glove belonged to him."


	11. Return

The snow leading up the path to Henrik Vanger's guesthouse was still marred with footprints when Blomkvist and Salander arrived that evening.

Blomkvist gazed up at the little cottage. Something about it felt both familiar and foreign at the same time. It was strange to think he had once lived here. Stranger still, was the memory of his former company.

In retrospect, it seemed almost _unfathomable_ that he had _ever _lead a more or less _peaceful _existence alongside Lisbeth Salander. After several periods of no contact, a trial, and a vast exposure of injustice, he sometimes forgot what it was like when to be around her when she _wasn't _wrapped up in some brutal atrocity. Then again, when they first met, Salander had already been subjugated to a number of fowl deeds at the hands of men. Blomkvist simply hadn't caught on. He gave her a sidelong glance, shaking his head slightly. Sometimes he could be so blind.

Hardly interested in standing around, Salander impatiently made her way up the path to the cottage. She nudged the heavy door with the toe of her boot, to no avail. Upon confirming it was locked, she surveyed the area for an alternate entrance.

"Hold this," Salander said, passively. She handed Blomkvist her flashlight and stepped off of the porch.

"What are you—?" Blomkvist began. He stopped himself, realizing his questions were futile. With a huff, he reached over and rattled the doorknob for himself. It was no use. The place was sealed up tight. A strange noise caught Blomkvist's attention. He frowned, and shined the flashlight at the side of the building. Somehow, Salander had managed to wrench a window open. Perhaps security wasn't quite as tight as he'd thought.

Salander held out her hand out expectantly, waiting for her flashlight. Then, in one swift motion, she pushed herself up onto the ledge and disappeared into the dark guesthouse. A long moment passed before she came around to let him in.

"Power's out," she said, shortly, shining her flashlight around the room. The place was in shambled. Dishes lay out in the sink, a thick coat of dust covered everything, and all furniture had been pushed into the center of the room to accommodate twenty, or thirty large cardboard boxes now lined up against the walls.

Salander seemed particularly weary. She shined her flashlight just beside the door, exposing what looked like two, large tanks of oxygen.

"Are those… medical?" Blomkvist asked, frowning.

"No, they're for diving." Salander flicked her flashlight off, and moved across the room in the dark. Blomkvist watched as she threw her weight against the bedroom door twice before it finally opened for her. She seemed to be searching for something in a way that was almost robotic. Feeling the need to busy himself, Blomkvist turned to the stack of boxes in the nearest corner and began to sift through. He wasn't exactly sure what he was meant to be looking for, but he didn't go to the trouble of asking. Lisbeth, as always, seemed to have some kind of system worked out in her head. He could hear her rummaging through something in the other room.

Blomkvist set aside a box full of books, and another full of old paperwork. Worst case scenario, he thought, he would have to sort through all of those entirely once he figured out what he was supposed to find.

Once again, Blomkvist was struck by the oddity of the situation. How strange, he mused, furrowing his brow. Here he was, back in Hedestad, searching through old boxes, completely wrapped up in something all over again. He never imagined he'd return to this. He was a journalist, not a detective.

Salander dropped a large box on the floor, making Blomkvist jump.

"Christ," he said, heart hammering. He couldn't see her very well in the dark. "What have you found?"

Salander flicked on her flashlight, holding it with one hand as she removed the lid from yet another cardboard box, exposing it's contents. At least thirty decks of playing cards lay inside, seemingly untouched.

Blomkvist stooped down to study them.

"Why would Henrik have all of these?" he wondered, aloud. Salander didn't humor him with an answer. Instead she strode over to a larger box Blomkvist hadn't searched through yet.

"Here," she said, setting the lid aside. Her eyes were fixed on something. She pulled a long cord from inside the box.

"What is it?" Blomkvist asked, stumbling over to her in the dark.

"Henrik's computer." Salander's flashlight flickered once, and she hit it with such force it turned back on instantly, as though it wouldn't dare test her again.

Blomkvist examined the desktop. It was new— state of the art— hardly something he'd expect an eighty-four-year-old man to own. "You'd think whoever is trying to cover their tracks here wouldn't leave this lying around," he said. If he had learned anything from his relationship with Lisbeth Salander it was that _computers _could easily be the key to everything.

Salander gave him a pointed look. "That's why I'm looking at it," she said, rustling around in her pocket for one of Nadia's cards.

Blomkvist began to feel anxious. He eyed the oxygen tank, still resting beside the front door.

"Lisbeth," he began, crossing the floor to get a closer look. "This probably belonged to whoever tried to drown you." He reached down and ran his finger across the facemask. Maybe it was only his imagination, he thought, but he could swear it still felt damp.

"Obviously." Salander gave a grunt of acknowledgement, barely looking up from Henrik's computer. "What's your point?"

"Don't you think it's strange?" Blomkvist asked, straightening up. _"Who's_ playing us here?" he asked. "Someone lazy? An amateur? What kind of _attempted murderer _leaves this kind of evidence just lying around?"

"One who doesn't care about getting caught," Salander said. She looked up at Blomkvist. "Someone safe."

"Safe…" Blomkvist repeated, shaking his head. "Who do you know who's exempt from the law? Not _Larissa Michailovich— _whoever that is. Not Tish Solovyov. Not even the Vangers. You and I both know; had Martin survived he would have lived out the rest of his years behind bars. No amount of money could have stopped that from happening. There is no _safe._"

"That's not true," Salander corrected. "Think about Wennerström. You think he would have been sentenced to anything serious?"

Blomkvist paused, taken aback.

"Truly despicable, scum-like men always seem to have a gift for skirting around the law," Salander said, through clenched teeth. "At least for a while." It occurred to Blomkvist then that Salander could have been envisioning any number of men in that moment. He stooped down beside her and stared at the card in her hand.

"Anyway, it wasn't a man who tried to drown me," Salander said, abruptly. "I already told you; it was a boy."

"Hmm." Blomkvist glanced around the dark room.

"That glove you found probably belonged to him," Salander pointed out. "He looked like he could have been a student."

Blomkvist rubbed his temples. "Yes, but a student from my daughter's roommate's alma mater? You said it yourself, that school turns out all of thirty graduates every year. Don't you think it's a bit coincidental?"

Salander shrugged. "I've seen stranger things."

This, Blomkvist did not doubt. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the glove.

_"S-F-D," _he repeated, gazing down at the messy stitching. "What the hell does that mean?"

Salander didn't respond. Her gaze grew progressively more distant.

"I suppose if you think the owner is a student, I could go down and check the registry—"

."— Be quiet for just a second."

Salander slowly rose to her feet, holding out a hand to silence him. She glanced down at the playing cards, and then at the computer, still in the box. A strange look crossed her face— something between confusion and horror.

"Lisbeth…" Blomkvist began, standing up.

Salander jumped slightly. Her gaze flickered back and fourth between cards and keys.

"Shit," she swore, breaking the silence. She frowned and shook her head, rapidly. Blomkvist began to feel alarmed.

"What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

Salander didn't seem to be paying him any mind.

"It's so simple," she reveled. "The code. It's so easy. I was thinking too hard…" She shook her head in disbelief.

Blomkvist stared at her, taken aback.

"You mean you've figured it out?" he gaped.

Salander bit her lip. "Yes…" she said, slowly. She looked more horrified than relieved.

"Jesus, Lisbeth. What does it mean?" Blomkvist asked, staring down at the cards that still seemed nonsensical in his mind.

"The letters are aligned with keys," Salander explained. She pointed at Henrik Vanger's computer. "Every letter on this card correlates with something on the keyboard. It's not exact… but there's a message."

When Blomkvist gave her a confused look, Salander sighed and pointed to the card.

"Look at the letter _C," _she began. "Now look at it on the keyboard. Follow it upward diagonally and to the left. What do you get?"

"_D?" _Blomkvist asked, still baffled.

Salander nodded. "Now do the same with _F."_

"You get an _R," _Blomkvist said."What's your point here?"

Salander stooped down and used her finger to trace the letter _D, _then frowned.

"Not exact," she repeated. Blomkvist got the sense this was more for his sake then her own. She seemed to have this all worked out already, though he could only imagine how.

She moved her finger over to the _K _and tried to trace it every which way before skipping a key and landing on _P._ She seemed to be following some kind of pattern. Blomkvist recalled the way she reacted when he brought up her photographic memory, so many years before. Sure it was all connected, he thought. Her ability to see patterns… her ability to memorize absolutely anything at all. Blomkvist shook his head. He was immensely envious.

Salander continued tracing letters. She followd _E _downwards instead of up. _A pattern. _She landed on _S, and _kept this up until she turned _K, W, J, _and _J _into _M, A, N, _and _N. _

_ "Drapsmann," _Blomkvist said. "Well, minus the first _A."_ _Not exact. _

He shook his head, incredulously. "That was Mikhailovich's name, wasn't it?"

Salander reached for the second box and pulled out a deck of playing cards at random. She tore the outer casing off carelessly and shook the cards out into her palm. Her eyes widened as she examined them.

"Look," she said, holding out a card— the Four of Hearts. Blomkvist squinted at the cardstock in the dim light. He could just barely make out another inscription along the lining of the card. This one was different. The _4 _was circled in blue ink.

"Nadia was sending playing cards to Henrik. That's why he had them all in his desk. They were messages," she said. "There are probably more here, too." She stared at the tiny boxes, still shaking her head in disbelief.

"But why?" Blomkvist asked, suddenly desperate for answers. "Lisbeth, this makes absolutely no sense. It's a child sending messages to an old man, all scribbled in code. Who's to say it meant anything at all?"

"She confronted me," Salander reminded him, the slightest touch of hostility to her tone, as though she couldn't stand to be doubted. "Nadia warned me about this person… _Larissa Mikhailovich." _She frowned. "And now we find these cards with her name all over them? It obviously means _something."_

"Well, where is Mikhailovich now?" Blomkvist asked.

Salander bit her lip.

_She doesn't know, _Blomkvist realized, with a touch of surprise.

Salander never responded to his question. Instead, she seemed deep in thought as she knelt and lifted the box full of playing cards, lugging it over to the side window and hoisting it up onto the sill.

"We need to leave," she told Blomkvist, wrenching the window open once again. "Go out through the back."

Blomkvist paused, wondering why they needed to go in such a hurry. He glanced around, paranoid, but saw only shadows. Henrik Vanger's old guesthouse was completely desolate apart from Salander and himself. He sighed, giving up on her logic and jamming his hands in his coat pockets as he re-emerged out into the frigid night. Only then did he realize he was alone. Salander was already halfway to the road, lugging Henrik's heavy box in her arms. Blomkvist jogged to keep up. They walked together in silence for several minutes.

When they reached the Vanger Estate, Salander stopped in her tracks, staring up at the house, silhouetted against the cloudy sky.

"There's only one explanation for all of this," she said. Her voice was quiet, but bizarrely commanding in it's own way. Blomkvist watched her, waiting for her to elaborate.

"There's a reason Plague couldn't find any sign of Larissa Mikhailovich past high school." Salander shifted the heavy box in her hand. Blomkvist reached out to assist her, but she shrunk away almost instinctually.

"What reason is that?" Blomkvist asked, hurriedly. The temperature had plummeted while they were in the guesthouse. Now, he was eager to get inside. He rubbed his hands together for warmth, watching his breath rise in plumes around him.

Salander gave him a sidelong glance.

"Larissa Mikhailovich is dead," she said, glancing back at the house.

Blomkvist frowned. "Surely, you would have found something… An obituary… A funeral notice. People rarely die quietly, you know." He motioned up at the Vanger Estate, where Henrik's office window was still illuminated by the light inside.

"Some people do," Salander said, matter-of-factly. "People who are killed…"

Blomkvist shook his head. "That's too big of a leap. You would have found an investigation. Or _at least _a missing person report. Are you sure you didn't miss anything?"

Salander gave him a sharp look. "I researched this very thoroughly," she said, an edge to her voice. "I couldn't find any information on Mikhailovich's family. She had no parents, no siblings. At least none she was on speaking terms with. I would have seen that. She was alone. Maybe no one's noticed when she disappeared." Salander shrugged. "No one but Nadia Ivarsson."

"W— What about Tish?" Blomkvist stammered. "They went to school together. People don't just _forget _about their close friends. It doesn't work like that."

"They forget if they have a reason to," Salander said.

"A reason _to forget?"_ Blomkvist furrowed his brow.

Salander shrugged her shoulders. She looked up at Blomkvist, a glint of something strange in her gaze. _A warped curiosity, _Blomkvist thought.

"There are lots of reasons to forget people," she said, monotone.

"And what about Julien Ivarsson?" Blomkvist pressed, recalling something she had told him earlier. "You said they dated, didn't you? Julien and Larissa?"

"That would explain how Nadia knows her," Salander said.

"You think he had something to do with her disappearing?" Blomkvist asked.

"I don't know anything yet," Salander snapped. Her shoulder's went rigid, and Blomkvist realized he had insinuated too much. He knew full well Salander was not in the business of accusing the innocent. Not after all she had been through as a result of others trying the same thing.

Blomkvist let out a long breath and tried his best to continue.

"You think Larissa Mikhailovich was killed, and Nadia Ivarsson was trying to warn _Henrik?" _he asked."Forgive me, but this still makes absolutely no sense. _Why Henrik? _What was her motivation?_" _

Salander looked away. Jaw set, she muttered, "We won't know anything until we go through this box."

Blomkvist shook his head in disbelief. He couldn't understand how she could make such a leap, so quickly. Then again, there were a lot of things about Salander that were still a mystery to him.

They walked together into the house.

On their way up the staircase, Blomkvist felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Anna standing a few steps away. She was shaking like a leaf again, looking utterly terrified. Blomkvist began to feel a growing sense of unease.

"Herr Blomkvist," Anna said, gently. "Harriet told me to remind you…" She looked away, wringing her hands slightly. "Tomorrow is Henrik's funeral. The time's been changed though… The service starts at five."

Anna didn't wait for a response. She turned on her heel and rushed down the stairs, looking stricken.

"Shit," Blomkvist swore. Amongst all of the chaos he had all but completely forgotten to reason he came her in the first place.

He turned to find Lisbeth.


	12. Six Hours and Counting

**Thank you for your constant patience. You guys are phenomenal. **

**~TruthIsOutThere**

The first thing Salander did upon returning to the guest quarters was tear through the collection of playing cards and splay their contents across the floor where she could see them clearly. When she had finished, Salander got to her feet and paced, eyeing the codes as she worked them out. Most of them easy. Nadia Ivansson clearly possessed a dull but curious habit of repetition. There were at least twenty cards that displayed the same, simplistic message. _C-F-D-K-E-K-W-J-J. Drapsmann. _The warning. Salander couldn't believe she had wasted so much time trying to work that out. It all felt so rudimentary now that she understood.

The remaining defaced cards were more difficult to read. Most were covered in circled numbers that obviously held _some _significance, though they didn't correlate with anything the keyboard like their alphabetical counterparts did. Salander frowned. Nadia had selected only fours, sevens, twos, nines, and tens, marking them with dark ink. Surely there was some obvious meaning. Salander tried equations first, but came up with nothing of significance. Shortly after this she tried dates, pulling up both Henrik and Nadia's profiles on her Macbook before concluding that those combinations held no significance, either. For a moment, Salander wondered if the cards represented a sum of money. It was a possibility. She reopened Vanger Industries financial reports to find no correlating withdrawals. She was just about to move on to Henrik's personal account when Blomkvist stormed in looking utterly disgruntled.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, breathlessly. He looked down at the carpet, where he had already stepped down on two or three cards. "Were you already working?"

Blomkvist didn't wait for her reply. He shrugged out of his jacket and stepped around the display of playing cards, momentarily losing his footing as he scooted around the couch towards his bedroom. He swore, shaking his head, and slammed the door behind him.

Salander frowned and set her laptop aside, getting up to stretch. Her mind was on the cards, but she was hungry as well, and this was as good a distraction as any. She paced into the kitchen, made herself an open sandwich, and then strode over to the bedroom door. Salander knocked quickly, leaning up against the frame.

Blomkvist wrenched the door open a moment later. She could hear he had turned the shower on. He looked startled.

"Do you need something?" he asked, obviously stressed.

Salander raised her eyebrows and stepped away from the door, giving him space. She had no time to deal with other people's mood swings as it was.

Blomkvist shook his head and looked apologetic.

"Shit," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. Do you know what I forgot?"

Salander resumed her seat and waited for him to tell her.

"Amidst all of this—" Blomkvist motioned at the cards laying out on the carpet. "— I completely forgot why we're actually _here."_

Salander looked up from her work.

"Henrik's funeral," Blomkvist reminded her. Salander frowned. She had almost forgotten about that, as well.

"So what?" she asked, with a tiny shrug. She didn't see the need for worry.

"Well, I'm hardly prepared," Blomkvist sighed. "I should have picked up a suit or something…" He looked distraught. "Or maybe a nicer jacket… This whole procession will be outdoors." He left to turn the shower off while he thought.

"You know," Blomkvist called, from the other room. "I really _did _like Henrik. It's a shame…" Pause. "And here I've been, shut up in the room all day. Not that it hasn't been nice." Another pause. "But I wonder if maybe I haven't properly paid my respects to the family."

"The family treats you like shit," Salander said, quickly. "What obligation do you have?" She chewed her thumbnail, passively, eyes still fixed on her computer screen.

"They weren't _all_ bad," Blomkvist said, rummaging through his suitcase. "Some of the Vangers have been pleasant."

Salander sat forward, frowning. Blomkvist caught her cool gaze.

"Well, Harriet is nice," he offered.

"Because she spent her life away from this hellhole," Salander reasoned.

Blomkvist chuckled and agreement, but Salander was barely listening as she grabbed her laptop again and bypassed the server protecting Henrik's financial information. She wondered if the people who built these sites were aware of all the loopholes they left open for people like her. Maybe they were too stupid to care, she thought, as her fingers flew across the keys.

"Lisbeth," Blomkvist prompted, from just beyond the door. Salander sighed and looked up from her work, irritated by the frequency of his interruptions.

Blomkvist stepped out into the living room, rummaging around for something on the kitchen table.

"About the cards," he began, his back to her as he searched. "If Nadia _was _sending Henrik these messages, why in the world did she bother putting them in code? Clearly she was worried about Larissa Mikhailovich— who you say is _dead, _apparently." Blomkvist paused, looking thoughtful if not slightly unconvinced. "Even so," he began. "It only makes sense that Nadia was terrified of someone _close. _Someone who could, conceivably intercept a message."

"The killer," Salander offered, letting her eyes wander back to the screen. She thought briefly of the boy by the lake.

"You really think this is about a murder, then?" Blomkvist asked, for what felt like the thousandth time.

"Yes," Salander said. She got to her feet then, picked up her laptop, and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She had no time for repetitive questions. Henrik Vanger's bank statement had just finished downloading and she was ready to look it over.

Once she was alone and free of distraction, Salander began searching through records dating back to time of Nadia Ivansson's arrival in Hedestad. Most of the withdrawals were small and inconsequential. The first substantial withdrawal took place three weeks after Nadia's arrival. Eight thousand kroner had been withdrawn from his account that day without ever being refunded. Salander raised her eyebrows. It wasn't necessarily conclusive, but she kept it in mind as she continued her search.

A second, larger withdrawal was made five weeks later from the same account. This time eighteen thousand kroner were withdrawn. Salander frowned and thought back to the cards, still laying out on the coffee table. The numbers circled were four, seven, nine, two, and ten. One circled number per deck. Each card belonged to the diamond suit. Salander tried to find the pattern.

The eight thousand kroner, could easily correlate with the 'four' card, while the eighteen-thousand kroner could correlate with the nine. It made sense. Nadia was working on a system of twos. It was simplistic, just as the keyboard coding had been.

Salander continued to sift through the records. Sure enough, in the months prior to his death, Henrik Vanger made a withdrawal of fourteen thousand kroner, a withdrawal of twenty thousand kroner, and a final withdrawal of four thousand kroner. In total, Henrik had given Nadia Ivansson just over sixty-four thousand kroner. Salander stared at the screen, momentarily taken aback. Either the old man really had gone senile, or he had one hell of a reason to be giving money away. Salander grabbed her jacket and headed for the door. She ran into Blomkvist on her way out.

"Are you leaving?" he asked, clumsily lighting a cigarette.

"I'm going to find Nadia Ivansson," Salander said.

Blomkvist craned his neck to see the large clock mounted above the bedroom door.

"You do know it's nearly one in the morning, don't you?"

Salander only shrugged and kept her wits about her as she left the estate and walked towards home she recognized as Isabella Vanger's.

Once she reached the porch, Salander paused. She gazed at the snow around the house. She could see no footprints— no evidence of fowl play. There were no cryptic hints lying about.

As far as she knew, Salander was alone for now.

From the size and shape of Isabella's home, Salander was able to deduce that there weren't any bedrooms on the ground floor. The second floor— while barely visible— was clearly the more viable option. Salander frowned, gazing up at the dark windowpanes. Henrik Vanger's funeral was the next morning. After that, she and Blomkvist would be expected to leave.

There was no time to waste.

Salander paced the perimeter of the house, trying to decide how best to attract the attention of Nadia Ivansson without either scaring her senseless or waking her Aunt in the process.

Fortunately, there was little need for planning. A moment later, an upstairs window screeched open and a small face peered out without prompting.

Salander looked up to meet the gaze of Nadia Ivansson.

"Have you worked it out?" Nadia hissed, rubbing her hands together in the frigid cold.

Salander nodded, wordlessly.

Nadia paused. It was just barely light enough to see the conflicted expression on her face. Salander repressed an impatient sigh, and looked over her shoulder once again. No sign of any unwanted visitors. She tapped her frozen fingers against her bicep, waiting for the kid to make up her mind.

Nadia shook her head.

"I'll be right down. Wait there."

Salander nodded. Then the window was closed again.

Nearly fifteen minutes passed and Salander began to suspect Nadia had changed her mind when finally Isabella Vanger's door swung open, and out came the young girl, fully dressed in warm clothes.

Nadia paused on the porch, slowly letting the door fall closed behind her. Though they had spoken twice before, she seemed wary of Salander now, appraising her fully before coming to stand by her side.

"We should walk away from the house," Nadia said.

Salander shrugged— her way of complying. She kept an eye on where the girl led her as they walked out on to the snowy road.

"Did you look into Larissa Mikhailovich?" Nadia asked, her voice quiet and frightened.

"Yes."

"Do you know anything about her?"

Salander frowned. "I know that she's dead."

Nadia stared at her, abashed. "You really are good at this," she remarked. "There are no records of her death anywhere."

"Which is exactly how I knew," Salander said, coolly. She didn't have time to tip-toe around the point, and she wasn't interested in flattery. "People like Larissa Mikhailovich don't just disappear without a trace." She thought breifly of Harriet Vanger, then frowned again. "It's rare, at least," she said, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets, to fend off the biting cold.

"Well now you know," Nadia said. "You're one of only four now. Henrik knew too but…" She frowned, and shook her head slightly. "Does Herr Blomkvist know as well then?"

"He knows," Salander said.

Nadia gave a curt nod. "Five then," she said. "Five people know, besides those who were involved." She sucked a breath in through her teeth. "It's dangerous," she whispered. "The more people who know, the more risk there is that…" she trailed off, blinking rapidly, as if to fend off tears.

"How did she die?" Salander asked, making no attempt at subtlety.

Nadia looked away.

"I'm not sure I can tell you," she admitted, after a moment's pause. "They listen, you know. They knew we're here."

Salander frowned. "Who?"

Nadia shook her head. "Not the killer, if that's what you think," she said, making a point to keep her voice down. "It's the men who work for him you have to worry about. They've been keeping a close watch on Hedestad ever since I got here."

"What do they want with you?" Salander asked. Now she, too, glanced over her shoulder, for safety's sake.

"I already told you," Nadia hissed. "I _know too much."_

"Too much about what?" Salander demanded. Now she was frustrated. "You want me to work this out, but you haven't given me sufficient information."

Nadia looked away again. "You found Harriet," she breathed. "Henrik told me all about it. He said the work you did was incredible… You found things he couldn't find over forty years."

"With Harriet we had more to go on," Salander snapped. "A girl's name on some cryptic cards is hardly enough."

Nadia looked terrified. "It's all I can give," she breathed. "Don't you understand? I have people breathing down my neck! There's only so much I can tell you before they catch on…" She shook her head.

"It's not enough," Salander said. "There isn't time. I'm leaving Hedestad day after tomorrow. If you want to say something—"

"— There was supposed to be more," Nadia blurted out. Salander stared at her, wild-eyed.

"Tish Solovyova," Nadia said. "She was supposed to give something to Herr Blomkvist… An… article or something." She frowned, as though she couldn't quite recall the details of their plan— or maybe she hadn't been filled in at all.

There it was, Salander thought. She and Blomkvist had been _so sure _Solovyova was involved in this somehow. Only now was there finally a confirmation. Salander thought of the article Blomkvist had promised to proof read. She didn't even know what it was about…

"What's in the article?" Salander asked.

Nadia bit her lip, and looked thoughtful. "I'm not sure," she admitted, with a tiny shrug. "All Tish said was that she had read Herr Blomkvist's previous work and she knew how to spark his interest— get him on the right path, you know? She said she'd get the information to him _somehow!"_

"He has it…" Salander breathed. She shook her head in disbelief. Of course, Blomkvist hadn't so much as _touched _Solovyova's article. It never seemed pressing.

_Ridiculous, _she thought. The pieces to this puzzle were too messy and disjointed to make sense of on their own. And there wasn't much time left…

"I need to know who killed Larissa Mikhailovich," Salander pressed.

"I already told you, I can't say it out loud," Nadia urged.

"Then what do you expect me to do?" Salander snapped, frustrated.

"Read the article," Nadia said. "Read it, and it will clue you in. I promise." She backed up a few steps, heading towards Isabella's house again.

Salander wasn't done yet.

"Did you leave a card outside my window the other night?" she asked, following Nadia the rest of the way.

Nadia looked up, startled. "I'm surprised you found that, actually. I assumed the balloon would blow away. It was a last resort."

"It didn't," Salander grumbled. She gazed out at the lake just down the hill.

Nadia's face grew ashen, as she followed Salander's gaze. She began to tremble slightly.

"Something happened, didn't it?" she asked, sucking in a deep breath to support herself.

Salander didn't respond.

"I have to go," Nadia hissed. "You should get inside. _Quickly. _They know I've been talking to you…_" _She glanced over her shoulder, and then sprinted for the porch.

Once she was out of sight, Salander headed back to the Vanger Estate, irritated and insanely determined at the same time. She glanced over her shoulder the whole way.

Inside the guest quarters, Salander immediately headed for Solovyova's article, leaving her coat in a heap on the sitting room floor in the process.

Blomkvist sat at the kitchen table, waiting for her. He had his computer out, and was looking oddly intently at something on the screen.

"Did you speak with Nadia?" he asked, getting up from his seat.

Salander nodded and began rummaging through the heap of paper left out on the counter. It was amazing how much garbage they'd accumulated in only four days.

"Looking for this?" Blomkvist asked.

Salander turned to see he was already holding Solovyova's article. She plucked it from his fingertips, greedily reading it over as quickly as she could.

"I took a look at it as soon as you left," Blomkvist said, settling down in his seat once again. "Strangely enough, I _don't _think Tish wrote this for the local news, as she said." There was a wry look on his face.

Salander shook her head as she looked over the material.

"She was tipping us off," Blomkvist said.

Salander's mind raced as she stared down at page after page of research. Legal documents, journalistic articles, interviews, and fathomless recorded Internet buzz were all stapled together, ready to be read and investigated. Each documented the life and career of one young man.

"Demyan Belyakov." She said his name out loud, trying to work out where exactly she'd heard it before.

Blomkvist turned his laptop towards her, allowing her a full view of what he had found.

A list of headlines were displayed, one of top of the other, making up a large archive that chronicled the work of Damyan Belyakov.

"He's a criminal," Blomkvist said. "He's a thief, a rapist, a murderer, and the leader of a powerful organized crime ring running through down Scandinavia from Eastern Europe. And look at this." Blomkvist clicked on another tab, pulling up a photo for Salander to see.

The photograph depicted two young men with a woman between then. The man on the left was tall and sturdy-looking, with a hearty grin on his face. The woman looked young. The man on the right was awfully familiar.

"Read the caption," Blomkvist said, scrolling down for her to see.

Salander squinted and leaned in close.

PHOTOGRAPHED [LEFT TO RIGHT]: DAMYAN BELYAKOV, LARISSA MIKHAILOVICH, AND JULIEN IVANSSON.

Salander's head snapped up. "Where did you find this?" she asked.

"One of the links in Tish's research. It was an unusual website. It was all in code."

Salander raised an eyebrow, as if to say, 'Then how did you get through?'

Blomkvist gave a little shrug. "I sent it to Plague."

Salander snorted and walked away, taking Blomkvist's computer with her. Of course he did, she thought. He was _Kalle Fucking Blomkvist, _after all.

"Where are you going now?" Blomkvist asked, following her out into he sitting room.

"To speak with Julien Ivansson," Salander said. She reached for the doorknob, but Blomkvist got there first.

"I think I'll go with you this time," he said. He had a strange look in his eyes— a cross between hesitation and excitement. Salander knew the feeling. The were close now. They could figure this out.

Salander gave an impatient shrug. Then she ventured out into the hall, with Blomkvist two steps behind. Somewhere down the hall, the grandfather clock in Henrik's study struck three. They had less than six hours before Henrik Vanger's funeral.

It was time to finally figure this out.


End file.
